Unprepared
by McColSHLoki
Summary: A Johnlock fanfic, starting a week and bit after Sherlocks fall. John is broken and having a difficult time coping with his death and various feelings for the man he had just watched die. Sherlock, on the other hand, is having just as hard a time, and his humanity begins to show in the smallest cracks. Inspired by many photos and edits from Instagram.
1. Without You

**Without You**

**Part 1 of a Johnlock Fanfic All credit please to McCol Iles (aka: believeinsherlock_cumberbatch)**

_"I can take the rain on the roof of this empty house_

_That don't bother me_

_I can take a few tears now and then and just let 'em out_  
_I'm not afraid to cry every once in a while even though_

_Goin' on with you gone still upsets me_

_There are days every now and again I pretend I'm okay_

_But that's not what gets me_  
_What hurts the most_

_Was being so close_

_And havin' so much to say_

_And watchin' you walk away_  
_And never knowin'_

_What could've been_

_And not seein' that lovin' you_

_Is what I was tryin' to do"_

_~ Rascal Flatts- 'What Hurts The Most'_

"Here we are, sir: 221B Baker Street."

John looked up out of the cab window. Sure enough, there it was, looming over the street, a bold and handsome looking building; a punch in the stomach. 221B: Home. No, it wasn't home, not anymore. Home was where Sherlock was, and now the flat was void of any of his blunt truth, his wittiness, his sharp and precise intelligence. His things were gathered in boxes now, labelled various things like 'science' or 'books', scrawled in Mrs. Hudson's feminine handwriting. Never again would John hear his deep and curvy voice that lured you in, his snide but beautiful remarks that would make you think he hated you but his eyes would tell you otherwise, his sheer and brilliant intelligence and crazed but correct views of everything and everyone. Baker Street would forever be absent of that absurd man and Johns heart would never be the same, a crater that would be fine if you just didn't look at it. But the crater was so big, it was hard not to. John had come back to grab Sherlock's things and bring them away, perhaps to a school as Mrs. Hudson had suggested.

It had been over a week since… he hadn't been able to say it out loud since his last therapist session and even then… just a day ago he had been able to think it which is what made him finally be able to pluck up the courage and face this, but now…

"Uh, sir?" started the cabbie. "Are you OK? Is this not the right address?" John's eyes snapped up to the front of the cab and stared at the mirror. He could see his eyes and they were pained, watering. He sucked in a shaky breath and resumed his mask.

Clearing his throat he put a hand on the door handle and grabbed his things.

"Erhm, yes. Thank you." He grabbed a few notes and handed them to the cabbie as he opened the door and stiffly got out, gripping his cane tightly, leaning on it as a life support, as he had nothing else to lean on, no one else. Pain shot in his leg but it did not dull what his heart was doing. He absently noticed the cabbie nodding and telling him to have a nice day, but he could not take note of it. 221B now stood before him. He thought he would be able to handle it but as he stood there, the pain crashed around him but he did not let his mask slip, not now. He pursed his lips and his brow furrowed. Thudding the door shut behind him, he flicked his hand as a thank you to the cabbie and heard the engine roar and then fade away as it puttered down the street.

Clouds hung in the atmosphere, hiding the sun. The sun. In a few hours night would begin to descend but he knew that the clouds would persist, and they would hide the stars and the moon, Jupiter, Venus, mars… Something caught in his throat and he attempted to clear it, fruitlessly. Taking in a stuttering breath, he leaned on his cane as he began to limp towards the door. Up the few steps. He was so close now, closer then he thought he could get. His fingers began to graze the cold doorknob. Just grasp it in his hand, a twist of the wrist and maybe he could face his fears. Maybe. But then he looked up, looked at the curtains that hung in their flat. No, it wasn't anymore, it wasn't theirs. It was his. No, he couldn't think about that. NO. Before he could stop it, his mind flew through the images of himself leaving the flat, night cloaking the place, lamps lighting the street. He would walk down the steps and look up, maybe just in time to see the curtains fall back into place before walking away again and shaking his head, but sometimes he would catch Sherlock looking down on him, watching him make his way across the street away from where he longed to be, with someone he longed to be with. Their eyes would lock, though you couldn't see it, you could feel it. They would hold a simple conversation: Sherlock and John

"Don't go."

'Really?'

"Yes."

But neither would act on this unspoken words and though the longing was clear and there, John would turn back around and keep on walking into the night.

Pain tore its way across his chest and a strangled sob burst from his lips. His heart was in a vice grip now, guts twisting painfully. Tears began to cascade down his face and he knew, he knew it. He could not go up there. Not now. Maybe never. But he would have to. He knew he would. Just not now. He would never be able to speak those words, nor he ones he truly yearned to say. The words could never exist, because he had never said them.

He turned on the spot and trudged away

"Sherlock, stop it, stop this." he muttered as though Sherlock could hear him. But he knew he couldn't. He never would. But John couldn't stop himself from saying these words over and over as though saying them would somehow make them true.

He started his way down the street which was painted a bleak gray, tugging at his heart. He tried to collect himself, but images of Sherlock kept glancing in his brain, making it a struggle. The way he had assessed him the first moment that John had walked into the lab, his perfectly untamed hair parting way for his devilish eyes. He remembered the way excitement lit up his face, the way he had looked at him with such concern when he had made John feel like he was nothing to him, his voice as he stood there on the roof, facing his death.

He had not been paying attention to where he had been heading and had found himself at a crosswalk. The light across the way forbade him from continuing, as well as the vehicles that whizzed by in flashes and glints of light and colour, their wheels pressing the asphalt, people sitting inside perfectly oblivious to those around them. He stopped at the edge and straightened up, military style against his cane, a stature he had readopted after Sherlock's... Shoving that thought away uselessly, he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before opening them up again. He then looked at the world in a different, dangerous shade. He could simply walk out there; drop his cane, step down and away from the curb; look sideways just in time to see the glint of a grille, the horrified face of the driver. Hear the engines purr, the brakes squeal, the drivers yells. Feel the grateful crunch of contact, the hard and unforgiving asphalt against his unshaven cheek and his head crack against it, perhaps like Sherlock's had: an end- an end to this living hell that had gone up around his life, a hell full of regret, dread and forlorn. He could join him. Join Sherlock.

The light across the way and the busy, heavy hum of the vehicles told him that he could not pass the street, but did the step up to the ledge stop Sherlock? Did the thought of what death would mean to those who cared about him have any effect? Sherlock had believed that he had been alone but John, well, he truly was. Every thought of John's came back to Sherlock and he could not stop them. Perhaps Sherlock would fade away with time, time making him forget Sherlock's face, his rich resonating voice, his witty remarks and straight forward talk. Maybe it would be good for John, to forget. But he didn't want to, he refused to. Anger bubbled up inside of him. Had he not thought to tell John more, to really talk to him? He had been a coward, ran away, he had been selfish. Didn't he know what he meant to John?

Just a few steps and he could ask him all that, just a few steps and all this would be over, no more hell on earth. He could talk to him, tell him what he wanted to say, tell him all, everything that he never said but should have. He could. But the light had turned and the vehicles squeed to a halt and the world turned back to the right shade, though not for the last time. He leaned to his side and began his way across the street to god-knows-where but met no flash of car, no horrified yells, no crunching bones on metal, no blissful getaway. He was still hatefully alive. And completely alone. Again. A few lone tears cut their way down his cheeks again.

"Don't. Be. Dead."

Sherlock watched from across the street, his scarf hung around his neck in the usual manner though his classic coat has spots of wear upon it. His hair which was typically nicely washed though perhaps lacking a proper grooming was helterskelter, his curls adorning his head in a loose manner. He peered through his lids, forehead scrunched up in worry. His cheeks were hollowed out slightly, making his cheekbones that much more prominent and his nose was smudged with filth. He had been staying with his Homeless network for days after his fall, learning the ways of those who had helped him save his friends, hurt himself, but had nonetheless been a great aid to him.

A black cab stopped outside 221B and rested there idly. He could see movement inside: John. He did not move but just stared up at the flat. The cabbie- who was an obvious bachelor by the way he moved as well as a pothead judging by the way he moved his mouth and did not have a cent to his name which he tried to cover up was evident in his clean but clearly outdated clothing- leaned his head back and talked to John. His stabbed at Sherlock but he tried to suck back this gush of emotion. He did his best to keep it under the covers, but he could feel its pull, trying to bring him under, make him feel human. But it's not as though this feeling was new to him, humanity. He felt it every time he watched John care, it was humbling, to watch ordinary people feel things, it leaks into your own system, makes you feel as well.

John clambered from the cab. He hovered a few seconds; hand on car door, shaking slightly. Fear, anxiety. He leaned heavily on his cane, readjusted his hand. Weak, tired, hasn't slept in days judging by the way he holds his head. He suddenly remembered how people would tell him to piss off if he told them these things, when he read them like an open book and how John was the only to find it… fascinating.

He bade the cabbie good bye and continued to stare at the flat, obviously reluctant to approach it. He then limped his way towards the front door. He had readopted his psychosomatic limp, and in heavy this turn. Alone, useless feeling, always felt that way when he wasn't active, but this time was different… He was missing something. Surely not… He had now made his way to the door and his fingers touched the handle. Pausing. His head jerked upwards, towards their window. His body suffered a full tremor and his frame could feel his mind racing. Trauma, depression, pain.A cry elicited from his lips. Hurt, sorrow. Goddammit John, turn around. Sherlock was too far away to truly asses his friend, but just even his face could tell him a story. He knew that face so well; the wrinkles on his forehead when he worried, the curve of his frown, the pull of his hair line, and the arc of his eye brows when he found something of interest, the intent gaze of his grey eyes when their eyes locked. He knew his movements by heart, in the way he walked, the way he moved his fingers fluidly across the keyboard, his stature when he stood military fashion, the tilt of his chin.

John was now moving away, quickly though still relying heavily on his cane. Sherlock was filled with a great and burning desire to rush to his side, embrace him and tell him he was there, it was alright, he was back, that he had never left. The hurt prickled at Sherlock, his eyes widening at this feeling of utter discomfort. He fought at this feeling, and the rising feel at the back of his throat, as though it were being blocked by an object of emotion, threatened to choke him. But if he thought that this was pain and sadness, it was nothing compared to his reaction to Johns words.

As John stepped away from home, 221B, Sherlock could hear him utter these words, watch the sides of his lips form these words, shadowed under his creased brow and tear stained cheeks.

"Sherlock, stop it, stop this." The words ripped Sherlock apart, but after years of practice and masking and ridding himself of emotion, he found such a demanding feeling a great and pressing force, capable of being shown through only the pursing of his tight lips falling into an 'O', and his eyes taking on a wide, pained and watery state.

"John." He gasped. His hand subconsciously reached out towards John as he turned a corner, away and out of sight. "I wish I could." He could hear Molly drive up behind him in a cab, cutting off this rare moment of pure and raw emotion. He clenched his jaw shut and ground his teeth, tilting his head up defensively. He stared up at the sky, thought of John's persistence that he should learn the solar system, that it mattered. It had in the end, but he was wrong, the world didn't rotate around the sun…

"John," he began shakily as he heard Molly get out of the cab and walk towards him. "I Love you."

"What?" It was Molly and she was stopped a few strides away from him, phone in hand with her hair pulled back in a pony was void of her usual lab coat and her face was creased with worry as she took in Sherlock's state. Blush dotted her cheeks, an obvious attempt to impress Sherlock in his state of : that was for ordinary people, but then again, his feelings were showing him that perhaps Moriarty was right, that he was ordinary. That awful feeling of doubt began to contaminate him again and he could feel his hands begin to shake in his pockets. Yes, his body was betraying him, he was settled down into human emotions and responses; ordinary.

"Sherlock, are you OK?" She asked, leaning in as she walked closer. "Have you been crying?" She pressed. He pursed his lips again and raised a hand from his pocket, touched his face. When he drew away his hand, his fingertips were wet.

"Sherlock, I'm here for you. You can tell me." She made and attempt to reach out for him but he recoiled.

"Molly, you know that I am grateful for what you have done for me, but I consider myself alone and your contact makes me believe otherwise." He said drearily.

She half smiled. "But you're not, you know that Sherlock. You have me and Mycroft and J-"

"The brother who betrayed me by sharing my life story, giving Moriarty perfect bait to tear me down? That is what I have for company? Big comfort, Molly." He snapped. He turned to look at her; she was taken aback and obviously offended. He would delve further but he honestly could care less.

"And J-" It was as though he could not speak. He swallowed and tried again. "I... Joh…"

He shook his head and strained his jaw. He turned his body to her.

"I'm sorry Molly. Thank you." He offered her his hand, which she took warily.

"So, have you talked to Mrs. Hudson yet?" he questioned. Molly nodded back.

"Yes, she thinks that I'm taking care of your things. She's left a key out somewhere."

"On the fence, tied up with a piece of blue ribbon. She's far too careless with these things." Molly looked at him and seemed as though she might ask him how he knew, but by now, she knew better. They crossed over to 221B, grabbed the key from the place that Sherlock said, opened the door and made their way up the stairs. They were mere feet from the door, walking in silence when a strange sound elicited from his lips. Molly glanced worriedly back at him and stopped at the door.

"Are you going to be OK? I can stay with you for a while, if you want."

"Lets' just get inside Molly." He replied. She put the key in the lock and turned it. The lock clicked and the door swung open.

It was a harsh slap in the face. The whole flat was familiar and homey, but it had obviously been a long while since someone had inhabited it, and it now lacked the loving feeling of being in use. The place was near empty, his things all gone, and his skulls spot lay vacant, the kitchen counter barren. Boxes were stacked on and around the coffee table, labelled with MrsHudson's handwriting and dotted with drops of what he could only deduce were tears. The one thing that remained the same was his chair, though it had a bizarre imprint on it, as though someone had rested their face in its seat for a while. He walked in a few steps, hands clasped behind his back. He stopped in front of the fireplace and turned around swiftly.

"Thank you Molly. You have been a great and resourceful friend these past days. I appreciate it. A lot."

"Whatever you need, I'm right here." She offered. He gave only the jerk of his head as a response. Molly shuffled awkwardly and looked at her shoes, which were scuffed.

"Well, that's it then, I guess. Ill be around later with some groceries and such. If you need clothes I can pick them up, take them to be cleaned, whatever you need until you're ready to… get out."

"Good." came his reply.

"Okay then. Well, goodbye for now I guess."

"Indeed."

She looked back up, studied his face. He felt as though he were under examination. But all he wanted was for her to leave; he couldn't stay this level for much longer.

"Yes, well, bye then."

"Yes. Good bye Molly. Thank you." He replied sharply. She nodded again, turned around and closed the door behind her softly, hearing it click shut. She began to make her way down the hall to the stairs in a hurry, but not fast enough to avoid hearing Sherlock scream, something shatter and him fall to the floor sobbing. So he was human, after all.


	2. To Miss You

**To Miss You**

**Part 2 of a Johnlock Fanfic. Please give all credit to McCol Iles (aka: believeinsherlock_cumberbatch)**

_"I never want to see you unhappy_  
_I thought you'd want the same for me_

_Goodbye, my almost lover_  
_Goodbye, my hopeless dream_  
_I'm trying not to think about you_  
_Can't you just let me be?_  
_So long, my luckless romance_  
_My back is turned on you_  
_I should've known you'd bring me heartache_  
_Almost lovers always do"_

_~A Fine Frenzy- Almost Lover_

"You have to say it John. It's the only way you can move on, you know it. Just tell me, you don't even have to look at me. What is it that you want to say?"

"I-I can't. You know that."

John leaned back into his plush sofa seat, his right hand grasping the nook of his cane while his left fidgeted ravenously on the arm rest, unable to stay still. He looked into his therapists eyes for a few seconds before tilting his chin upwards, avoiding anymore eye contact as he could feel her, Ella, inspecting him, looking for any sign of emotion that she could hook her claws into.

"I know that John, but you have to. Okay? What do you wish that you could say to him, to Sherlock?"

John ground his teeth as the mention of his name, the crease between his eyes deepened and a burning fury jumped out of his mouth.

"Do. Not. Say. His. Name." His eyes flashed up to meet those of Ella's. She seemed to relish in his response, as though she were getting somewhere with this, this torture.

"Say whose name?" She asked, cocking her head slightly.

"I am talking to you because I need help, not for you to badger and harass me! Goddammit! How the Hell is this going to help me?!" he roared.

"John, please calm down." cooed his Ella. John jumped up to his feet, leaning on his cane, hunched over, his eyes a curtain of burning fury and pain.

"WHAT? That's like shooting someone and telling them not to bleed!" He straightened up to his full height and looked down his nose at her. They stayed like that for a few moments, staring each other down; John with a look of utter fury, and hers of saddened amusement. He exhaled loudly out of his mouth before a resemblance of a smile cracked out onto his pale lips. She smiled too and chuckled minutely before taking on her professional stature again. He shook his head quietly and leaned back down into his seat across from her. Lowering his eyes to his shoes, he spoke simply.

"I'm sorry. But this, this situation. It's hard to understand or even comprehend. I mean, all of a sudden, he was gone. There was no transition or closure. All of a sudden, his voice was gone, the flat was empty and I lost perhaps my only real friend." He gasped softly- which he managed to cover up by clearing his throat- with surprise at the words that seemed to be leaking from his mouth as though they were someone else's. But they had to be his, as it was his lips that were forming them, his tongue that shaped the words and his voice that spoke them.

"I know John, I know it's hard, what its like-"

"No, no you don't." He choked. "You don't. You have no idea what its like. You don't understand how it feels to have the rug pulled out completely from under you and have you world flipped upside down. You don't know and you never will. You're just going along in life, thinking it's all just fine and grand, then before you know it, you're watching your best friend fall towards the ground, his body going cold and blood covering his face-"

He stopped suddenly and squeezed his eyes shut. He had just brought on a flurry of images from that haunting day on himself, and the sight of Sherlock's lifeless body on the hard, cold ground made him sick to his stomach. He tried breathing in slowly, to steady himself, though it had little effect.

She leaned in closer, resting her hands on her knees; her dark brown eyes looked at him softly with intrigue and careful, practiced mother-like intention.

"Then help me to understand. John, I am here to help you."

He sighed and the room was silent for a minute as he opened and closed his mouth several times, as though he intended to say something, but he had no idea what that would be. She stayed where she was with careful patience, letting him run on his own time. And then, on one of the many times that he opened his mouth, words came out instead of silence.

"There was nothing I could do. I wanted to, but what can you do when your best friend is standing on a roof? You're going to listen to him.

"He told me to stand there, while he told me that he was a fake, that he was a fraud and all sorts of rubbish. He said that it was his note, that phone call. He demanded me to keep watching him, he made me watch him fall; watch him die, that selfish bastard! What the hell did he think he was doing?! Did he not think about what that would do to me? All of a sudden he thinks that he can just cop out when things start to go wrong? Just who the hell did he think he was? Did he even think?! What it would do to me? Didn't he know how I feel-" He cut his words short, choked by the words his own tongue had chosen to use.

The word 'was' and 'did' rang in John's head, deadly and toxic words that made him realize the truth. That Sherlock was gone, truly gone. There was no future or present tense, he was forever stuck in the past. Tears began to suffocate John, but he refused them, keeping them at bay. The awkwardness of his last sentence hung in the air, confusion mingled in Ella'sface. But before she could comment on this oddity, he continued on.

"Ill never be able to talk to him again, y'know? He's just gone, no more, I'm not even sure what to do about it, with myself. There were so many things I should have said, that I want to say… I can't even go to the flat anymore. I tried a week ago but I just... couldn't. I don't think that I ever can." John's words simply seemed to wear out, but she continued to press him. He swallowed, but the lump in his throat persisted and it was a wonder that he was even able to speak. Then again, tears were springing to his eyes, leaving a glazed finish to them.

"What do you want to say to him John?"

He stared at a patch of wall behind her for several moments before he got up in a hurry, grabbed his things and shook his head.

"I think that's enough for today." He snapped. She straightened up in her chair and assessed him with surprise.

"But we still have a half hour to go, Dr. Watson." He narrowed his eyes at her.

"No we don't." And with that, he limped out of the room, more hurt than he had been when he walked in a half hour ago.

Ella sat there in her chair, jotting down various notes such as 'trust issues still very dominant' or 'opened up but avoided real contact.' John had just stormed out of the office in a fit of rage and had left her time to write and relax before her next session. Her last note read 'Call into office before end of week. Possible danger to self.' She sighed deeply and closed her eyes, leaning back into her seat and relaxing. But suddenly, a deep, beautiful and resonating voice spoke from behind her, jolting her back to reality.

"You're wrong, you know. He's not a danger to himself."

"Wha-? Who are you?" she squeaked, sitting straight up now, neck craning to her right to see who it was behind her. The stranger began to make his way around, hands behind his back and chin turned up a degree as he turned his ice blue gaze upon her. He wore a light blue worn shirt, the top button straining against his elegant frame, tucked into black trousers that framed his long legs. His straight dark hair was pushed away from his face in an obvious attempt at styling and dark stubble shadowed his sharp, square jaw line.

"Who are you?" she repeated. "What are you doing here?"

He clucked his tongue against his teeth, shaking his head at her as though she had just said something idiotic.

"That is not important information to you."

"Oh, is it not? I would think that seeing as you are an unannounced guest in my office that I should have the courtesy of knowing who you are." She stared him down with supposed ferocity in her eyes but it was simple enough to notice the fear and panic that it did a bad job of masking. The man began to deduce who this woman exactly was.

Wears a wrinkled shirt- lazy, busy- she's precise with her hair and makeup, so that could only mean that she does not possess the tools or money to make sure her clothes were properly looked after. It's shown in her nail polish, as its chipped and out grown, it has obviously been a decently long time since she had touched them up. Yes, she lacks the money and also works with her hands a lot. She has a second job, perhaps as a maid? She is a therapist so she should hold worry or lines on her forehead, but the absence of these shows that she doesn't appreciate her job, and is simply here to fill her bills. She does have smile lines though that most likely do not come from smiling, but scorn. Yes, she was a maid, watching her employers dance about with designer things and her jealousy was great. Ah, yes. Working class citizen who longed for more but was far too lazy to actually try. Typical

"Fine, whatever. What did you mean though? He obviously is hurt, weakened mentally by what has happened, depressed... What do you know about this anyways?" She scanned the room, eyes narrowed. "How did you get in?" The man rolled his eyes at her questions. "You're all so dull and unobservant. Mind placid and unstrained. It is not as though you're petty brain would take note of what I said, even if I did, which I wont. As I said, it is not of importance to you." He motioned with a small flick of his hand, a dismissive kind of movement.

"Who are you?" She repeated. He smirked at her

"Please." He taunted.

Ella opened her mouth again, most likely to threaten and scold this man for intruding and harassing her, but she didn't get a chance as the man began to speak rapidly but nonetheless, very clearly.

"I've distracted you enough. Simple minds like yours just skip over the facts and are eluded so easily. Ah, how I pity you. Anyways, he holds too much hope. John, I should probably remind you, you idiot. He doesn't actually believe it, no matter how many times he tells himself. He wouldn't end his life while he's waiting to open the door and find him there as if nothing had ever happened. You don't know anything about him, though I do suspect you know a load about the value of that stolen necklace you're wearing." She gasped and her hand flew to her neck, grasping an emerald and gold pendant that hung there. "Ah, yes. Thievery is not a very admirable trait in a maid, I should tell you that." Her face was wide in astonishment and bewilderment. Many words seemed to cross her mind but she did not have the brain capacity to speak them.

"Who are you?" she repeated again. "Tell me or I will call security!" Again, the man rolled his eyes at her.

"If you're going to make a threat, make it a realistic one, would you? Oh, how you bore me. Now I know you would like to continue asking me who I am, where I came from and make flimsy threats but, you see, I have to be somewhere. Tally Ho, Ella. Oh sorry, was that too personal? Let me rephrase that: John's therapist." He strode over to the door and opened it, disappearing behind it before pausing and popping his head back in, looking at the bewildered therapist, sitting there in her chair and stolen necklace.

"And don't expect him to be back in anytime soon. He loathes your opinions, as should you. Good day."

"Oh, shut UP!" John's computer had chirped at him again: emails and comments on his blog from his family, trying to inconspicuously talk to him about what happened. They constantly were badgering him with things like: 'Haven't seen you in a while! lets get coffee sometime! xxx Harry' or 'come over for dinner soon, want to talk to you. Bill' Even someone who wasn't Sherlock could see that all they wanted to do was make sure he wasn't doing anything stupid

and then pester him about what had happened almost a month ago. It had been a long time, really, for each day passed like a year, but it still stung like an open wound having lemon juice poured on it.

John had not been anywhere near the flat or Baker Street since his last attempt to pick up his things over two weeks ago. He simply couldn't make himself do it, go near it, and when he thought of it, it tore him a new wound and images of Sherlock's devilish smirk, his ranting and pacing, demanding cigarettes accompanied it. There it was; the lemon juice on the wound. He avoided these thoughts, but sometimes, he couldn't help it, they just cropped up, invading his mind, damaging him further.

It chirped again and John jumped up, grabbed his cane and limped over to his laptop.

"Oh, for God's sake!" Flipping it open all the way, he typed in a few words, hoping that it would satisfy them.

Sorry, cant. Busy. Maybe some other time. Really, I'm fine.

Well, it was partially right. He was rather busy. He had submerged himself in work at whatever hospital he could find, reading whatever he could get his hands on and sleeping when he wasn't doing anything else. He tried to fill his days as to not be useless and succumb to his feelings. But the I'm fine was a little less than true, it was just a comforting lie he told himself.

He slapped the lid of his laptop back down and limped back to the hotel bed where he plunked himself back down, grabbed a book and propped up his legs stiffly.

He had been staying at a friends house for a week after the… but after that, feeling like he had overstayed his welcome, moved onto a hotel, despite its cost. Mrs. Hudson, being the great woman she was, had spared him of his rent until he was ready to go back. Which she knew full well may never happen.

Ding, ding! "God dammit! Can't they just leave me alone?!" he breathed irritably. His phone had beckoned him from where it lay beside his computer on the desk. It glowed in the dark, as his curtains were closed to the street and only his bedside lamp was on. He expected a

message from one of his family members, or perhaps Bill. He threw his legs off the bed and put the book down on the side table, grabbing his cane. He made his way over to his phone, unlocked it and peered at the screen in disbelief as it lit up his face. It, the message, had no clear meaning of what it meant or who it was from. It simply read:

No you're not.

John stood there for a long while, perhaps five minutes, just staring at the screen, even after it had faded then blacked out. His face was open and a fearful look had been placed upon it. At some point, he turned around and walked back to his bed and climbed under the covers, still dressed. The bedside lamp still burned bright but he faced away from it, studying the dark curtains, though not really looking at them.

"No, it can't be. He's dead. It's impossible." He muttered to himself. He lay there like that until light began to peer through the edges of the curtain and the lamp flickered out, never once moving, not blinking, and hardly breathing. At last, his phone went off, telling him it was time to get up, go to work. He rolled over, turned off the dead lamp and stiffly put his feet to the floor. Reaching for his cane, he noticed it missing. Puzzled, he looked up to the desk where it sat, questioning him, telling him: Move on.

The door clicked open and Molly walked into the flat and looked upon Sherlock lying on the couch, fingers steepled in front of his curvy lips, surrounded by a perfectly flawlessly clean room.

"Oh, so I see you cleaned, did you?" she asked pleasantly.

"No, the faeries came and did it. Spare the pleasantries Molly. It scratches at my nerves." came his snide response. She sighed wistfully and continued into the kitchen, placing the grocery bag she was holding on the island. She slowly took the items out of the bag, placing them carefully on the counter. Deciding against what Sherlock had said, she began to make small talk.

"So, what made you want to clean? It looks great by the way."

"Bored." He muttered.

"Oh, don't go pulling this on me! C'mon! You're the one who's done this to yourself!" she snapped. Her jaw popped open in shock. Noticing her mistake, she whirled around, ready to make an apology. But she turned to face Sherlock sitting up on the couch, facing her, his eyes a mask and his hair straight and gelled back partially, dark stubble shading his jaw.

"Holy Sherlock! What did you do?! Your hair...?"

He reached up to his face and then his hair in surprise.

"Oh, yes. I forgot about that." Molly continued to stare at him in disbelief, obviously waiting for an explanation.

"Ah, I went out. Couldn't have people recognizing me." he said lazily. She snorted and turned back to the groceries.

"No body recognizes you without that hat." She replied, smiling.

"That infernal ear flap hat!" he scowled. "It wasn't even mine… two fronts… Ridiculous!" he snarled. Chuckling, she grabbed the empty bag and crumpled it up then walked over to the rubbish bin, throwing it out.

"You… You took out the rubbish?!"

"Yes, why is that such a surprise?" he responded, resuming his position on the couch.

"I, well, didn't think you could." Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, blocking her out. Molly walked around, putting away the groceries. She knew, that despite his newfound housekeeping skills, that he would make a complete mess of them and never put them away.

"How's your laundry?" she asked politely.

"Go see for yourself. I didn't go out to do the laundry, you know.

"Oh, fine." Molly trudged off to go gather his clothes from his room. Coming back a few minutes later, a stuffed laundry basket in hand, her eyes were wide.

"You even cleaned your room! What has gotten into you?" She said in bewilderment.

"I told you Molly. Bored."

"Oh whatever. I'm going to go do your laundry, and while I'm gone, I want you to take a shower. And shave. I cant stand looking at you like that. You don't even look like you." she told him.

"That was the plan."

"Well it worked, didn't it? Now go! Don't make me do it with you..." Molly threatened. With that, Sherlock jolted upright and paced over to the bathroom, slamming the door shut. Though satisfied with this response, she waited until she heard the water run and him get in. He truly did look bizarre like that.

It was hours later and Molly had come back from the laundry to find Sherlock in his sofa chair, book in hand and violin resting on the floor. He had clearly done as instructed, for his hair was once again, clean , curly and untamed and his jaw absent of the shadowy stubble. Wordlessly, Molly walked over to his room and put his things away, returning empty handed and tired.

"Well," she started "You should be good for another week now. Uh, call me if you need..." She stopped for Sherlock clearly wasn't listening to her. He gazed up at the fireplace mantle, where pictures and things now adorned it, including his skull. But what she hadn't noticed was what the pictures were of: there was his brother Mycroft, a woman whom she could only assume was his mother- both in petite frames- and a large, dominant picture of John and Sherlock, when they had been receiving gifts. Sherlock was outfitted in 'that infernal ear flap hat' and John stood there immortally, a look of overjoyed amusement on his face. It was this picture that Sherlock stared at.

"Uh, Sherlock?" No response. "Sherly?"

"Don't call me that." he snapped, head whirling around to meet her eyes. Molly's forehead creased.

"Are you OK? You don't seem it."

"I'm fine. Thank you Molly, but you can leave now." he replied in a rush. He turned his head back around before she could truly see his face, but she could swear she saw a glistening trail where a tear had cut through his cheek. She backed out of the room, opening the door.

"Okay, just call me if you need anything, okay?"

"Text. Good bye Molly." he stated plainly. With that, dropping the book, he picked up his violin, placed it under his chin and began to play. Sickeningly sad melodies poured out of its strings smoothly, but Molly knew better than to comment. She closed the door shut behind her and left.

Now at this time, John was in a cab and nightfall was approaching, but that didn't matter. He had been working up to this all day and it could be the only time he might be able to do it. He was heading to 221B. He had been in the back seat, eyes closed shut and breathing evenly through his nose as to not disrupt his Sherlock free chain of thoughts. As they neared the flat, and they rounded the final corner, Molly left the front door, hailed a cabbie and was gone. As her cab pulled away, John's pulled up. It stopped, the cabbie spoke to him and he opened his eyes, clenched his jaw and thanked the driver, paid him and got out. Upstairs, Sherlock's hand lightly held the bow and was playing out various heart-wrenching tunes that he himself had created. He was now standing up, circling the room gracefully, eyes shut. John, at this point, had opened the front door, breathing loudly through his mouth, and was walking up the stairs. He paused halfway up them, listening. He could mutedly hear a violin playing, and it tugged at his interest. He sped up his ascent, leaning even harder on his cane for support, for despite his intrigue, it pained him greatly to hear it. By now, Sherlock had heard the footsteps on the stairs, and noticed their pace was different from Molly's, so it wasn't possible that she had left something behind, as usual. These were the steps of someone he knew very well. Someone of

a pained gait; a mans. His playing quieted then picked up again in a heightened eagerness, as the thought of just who it could be lightened his state of being, despite the confrontation he knew would come with it. He circled tighter and faster about the room for a few beats until the footsteps stopped at the front of the door and didn't continue. Sherlock ceased his pacing and softened the tune and changed it to a lovely, long melody.

John stood there, listening to it, unable to do anything other then feel utter sickness and absolute disbelief mixed with ecstasy.

Quickly, his hand shaped around the familiar door knob and twisted it, a motion he had imagined a thousand times over the past month. He eased the door open until it was clear of the room. There, in the middle of it, was the man he had dreamed of, the man who had haunted and starred in his dreams for the past month. He was there, and perfectly real as he elegantly strummed the violin, it resting under his perfect chin, his long fingers caressing the bow and neck. His ice blue eyes locked onto John's and they stood there, John's face wide with the perplexity, pain, sadness and love that was painted on his lined face.

Sherlock, with a great movement and swing of music, ended his ballad and put his violin back on the floor beside his chair. He never broke eye contact with John as he leant down and straightened, sure to stare at him with all the emotion he could muster. John's lips were parted in an 'O' as they seemed to attempt to form words. And at last, they did.

"Sher... Sherlock? Wha... What? I... I thought you were dead!" he managed

Sherlock cocked his head a degree, a sympathetic smirk played on his perfectly shaped lips and his eyes conveyed a deep, loving sadness. As they began to glaze over, he spoke.

"It got boring." Sherlock choked out. Neither of them moved, simply standing there, trying to decide whether or not this was real. Sherlock's breathing began to heighten and hurt as he fought the tears that threatened to choke him again. At last, he tried to speak.

"John, I'm sorry. I never wanted to leave you. I wish it hadn't been necessary." He locked his jaw shut and attempted to continue. "John, I... I-"

John stopped him, dropped his cane and talked steadily with emotion gushing from every syllable.

"Come here, you bastard." John strided across the room and Sherlock took him into his arms. One of them was sobbing, but neither could tell who. They stood there for a long time, rocking back and forth in each others arms, not wishing to leave. And so they didn't.


	3. Where Were You

**Where Were You?**

**Part 3 of a Johnlock Fanfic All credit please to McCol Iles (aka: believeinsherlock_cumberbatch)**

_Some say love is not for sinners_  
_I believe that isn't true_  
_'Cause when I was finished sinning_  
_Love came down and showed me you_

_And you told me how to get there_  
_so I tried to find a way,_

_What are you doing to me?_  
_I'm so into you_  
_And the hardest part is knowing_  
_That I'll never follow through_  
_You're slowly killing me_  
_And I wish it wasn't true_  
_Cause I'm so into you_

_Like a ton of bricks it hit me_  
_And woke me from this dream_  
_No matter how hard I tried to wash my hands_  
_I could never get 'em clean_

_~Hedley- Trip_

Rain began to come down outside, running down the windows of Baker Street in long watery streaks, making the street outside a blurred picture. Its soft fury touched the panes in dull hits, begging for attention of some sort. It poured down on the place harder and harder, but the inhabitants inside of a particular flat could pay it no attention. They were in a world of their own, a world named 221B, where nothing and no one could interrupt them inside their little hovel, warm light basking their tangled figures that lay on the couch. A smaller man of sandy coloured hair was crying, his quiet sobs absorbed by the light blue covered chest he laid on. He was embraced by another man of tall and elegant structure, his head adorned with dark untamed curls. One hand rested on the back of the crying man, his other was cupping the man's neck in soft possession. Neither showed any intent, let alone effort, to get away from the other. In fact, the truth was the exact opposite.

John and Sherlock had no exact memory of how they had ended up on the couch; instead, they simply embraced the fact that they were there in each others arms, at last. John was, for once, not caring about what would happen if someone walked in on them, the explanations to be had and the potential consequences. He could care less, for he was in the arms of Sherlock, his Sherlock. He lay on top of him, one hand resting on his chest, near his own face, while the other was on Sherlock's shoulder, grasping it, never wanting to let go. He clutched him in such a way that it seemed he was afraid that he would simply disappear, cease to be and then he would be alone again.

It would appear that he, John, was crying, when in fact, he shed no tears, only gasping for breath painfully, fighting the realization that this simply couldn't be real, and that he hadn't just woken up from a nightmare, broken out of his personal hell. But it wasn't John that was crying: it was Sherlock.

Silent tears streamed down his face in torrents, soaking his shirt. He wished to talk, but he knew if he tried, he would lose what little control he had, and for the first time, show who he truly was. At an attempt to steady himself, he tilted his head forward, pressing his lips against John's head and took in a deep breath of it. He could smell his familiar scent; it was clean and crisp, mixed with pine and an undertone of sweat. He relished it and breathed deep again. And then, Sherlock began to assess him.

Cold, smaller, hasn't slept in days, thinner 14lbs, weak, needs familiarity. Oh, John, my John.

He clutched him tighter to his chest as the pain that this appraisal brought cleaved him in two, so he held onto him as though he were the threads of life holding him together. John, please don't go, I'm sorry, please, don't leave me…

"Don't go, I love you." Sherlock breathed. He tensed as he realized that he had spoken his thoughts out loud, that John had heard them; the truth. He felt John's brow furrow deeper and his hand on his chest clenched, his fingertips pressing down. And then, slowly he breathed deeply.

"I love you too." He murmured. Sherlock smiled through his tears, eyes closing blissfully, his lips curving upward. Slowly, he pressed those lips against Johns head, kissing him lightly, slowly, passionately. He felt John's body shudder under his touch, and he feared for a second that John would reject him, but instead, he held him tighter, nuzzling his head even closer to Sherlock.

"Where were you? Where did you go?" John asked demandingly.

Sherlock raised his hand from his neck and entwined his fingers in John's hair, tousling it carefully.

"I never left." Sherlock replied. Finally, tears began to fall from Johns eyes.

"Don't do that. That was not okay. Never again…" he begged.

"Never again."

"I don't want to be alone again."

"You won't. I promise." A pregnant pause filled the air as Sherlock grappled for words. When at last he came across them, they tumbled out in a mess that John had never heard before.

"John, I'm sorry, so sorry. Forgive me, please. I know, I know it was horrible. Please; forgive me, for everything I did to hurt you, I did it to protect you. I couldn't live without you. I-" John cut Sherlock off, lifting his head up a few inches to look him in the eyes.

"Not now, Sherlock, not now." He told him. Sherlock's anxiety concentrated and his chest constricted. "But yes, Sherlock, I forgive you. I believe in you." Sherlock attempted to smile weakly behind the waterfall of silent tears but a gurgling sound took its place. John then leaned up his chest and tilted his head towards Sherlock where their foreheads met, and they stayed there for perhaps hours on end, simply drinking each other in.

Early morning light seeped into the flat, basking their figures in a murky grey light, but it did not touch them, really, for they were still in a world of pure and utter bliss, that even the most

dark, dank day could touch. At some point through the night, they had gotten up and made tea, but neither said a thing, none spoke a word. They simply stared into each others eyes as they filled the kettle with water, poured it in cups, and held it in their hands, their eyes speaking a thousand words for them, but never once making a sound. They did not sleep a wink that night, for both feared that if they closed their eyes, the other would vanish without a trace and they would be left with a hurting longing for the other that could never be filled.

At last, sounds of the city began to awaken around them with cabbies driving along the streets, people leaving their flats and homes, doors slamming shut behind them. The fakes leaving behind the broken hearts of their one night stands, and the poor of love but rich of money walked about the streets in sad scorn. Sherlock got up from his spot on the sofa chairs and ambled across the room, looking out the window down onto the street and its sights. He could not help but deduce who and what these people were, but his mind did not wander far from the man who sat on the chair behind him, elbows on knees, tea in hand, studying him happily. Swiftly, he turned around and looked John in the eyes, filled with emotion.

"Is it time now? To tell you?" he asked. John straightened up halfway, inspecting Sherlock. He could see that, while he wished to explain his blunt lie, he did not wish to spoil this moment of heaven. So he shook his head. Then, as he made this motion he knew that no, he had to know, now. Abruptly stopping his head, he paused, before doing so again. Perhaps, to some other person, this would make no sense, but this was Sherlock, and he wasn't 'just another person'. In a subtle response, Sherlock nodded his head before silence once again filled the flat. Sherlock paced around the room, John's eyes following him as his strides got shorter and faster, around and around the room. Without warning, Sherlock stopped behind John, and words slipped from his lips in a practiced and worried tongue.

"I know it's too late to apologize…"

"It isn't." John replied. Sherlock nodded again from behind John, continuing on.

"I once asked Mycroft if there was something wrong with us. He didn't say much except a simple thing that has yet to leave me: 'All lives end, all hearts are broken, caring is not an advantage.' He ended it there, but I knew that there was more to it, but he left it for me to figure out. Really, it wasn't that difficult to figure out, truly, even for people like him. Anyways, while caring is not an advantage, it is an unavoidable part of life. I always thought that perhaps it did not apply to me, but I knew that was false, from the moment I met you, but then, I didn't know it. I tried to ignore the fact that I cared about you immensely, tried to tell myself that I would be just as well off without you, but I knew that was wrong. I knew that if you were to cease existing, I would too. I also knew that you were ignorant of this fact, as you could not bring to light that you were the one thing I truly cared about, in ways I did not even know or understand. I don't know that I understand them, even now." John could hear his voice catch

and he knew that his mind was flipping through the past hours that they had spent together. "I knew that you too cared about me, but I thought that perhaps it was not in the same confusing way that it was to me. Because, while I can deduce how you slept last night or if the person you were with was right or left handed, or the type of jam you prefer, I could never understand or deduce a thing about your heart." He paused, letting the words sink in.

"A month ago, the three lives that I care about in this world were threatened. The only possible way to keep you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade alive was if I died. I don't think you can understand the torment of the thought of a world absent of you. The mortal pain your absence would have on me…" John cut him off in a shot of fury.

"But you didn't stop to think what a world without you would do to me?!"

"It was one life in exchange for three."

"Yes, one life, and yet here you are. You're here, aren't you?" John shot back.

"You see, I had to protect you. I told, didn't I? Alone is what protects me, and I am not me without you." It looked as though John wished to speak but the words did not come.

"I faked my death with the help of Molly and my homeless network. When I was up on that roof, Moriarty and I were talking- dull information, I shant bore you with it. There was a moment when I had the chance to stop it all, keep the ones I love- uh, cared about, alive. But he took that from me, so I had to go through with it. Again, the details are dull.

"That biker that hit you wasn't an accident: I planted him there to give us time to prepare, and so that you couldn't be completely aware of the situation."

"You had no pulse...?! You were medically dead!"

"Ah, yes. I had a little rubber ball that I placed in my right arm, stopping the pulse when I squeezed it, which you couldn't see as I was on my side. The homeless network blocked you from getting at my left arm and neck, so you had no option but to feel my pulseless arm. They carried me away before you had the chance to figure anything out.

"That was perhaps the most difficult thing I have done. I had to lay there, watch you fall apart, the only one who I have ever truly cared about, listen to you scream my name; call me your friend, at last. I could not move, for you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade had a gun pointed at your head.

"I stayed with the homeless network for a week afterwards, and then Molly brought me here, and has been taking care of the place, just me really. Erm, I may have broken a lamp of yours by the way." John looked at him quizzically.

"I sort of lost it after Molly left. I think she may have heard it, I was rather loud. Mrs. Hudson was away at the time." John still stared at him, and Sherlock felt the need to elaborate.

"I fell apart, screamed my head off, threw the lamp across the room and lay on the floor sobbing for a long while if you must know." He said in a rush of nearly ineligible words. He turned away and faced the wall, for a trail of tears sped down his cheeks again. He could hear John get up without the aid of his cane and walk over to Sherlock until he faced him. He then reached his hand up and placed it on Sherlock's chest, above his heart. He kept it there and raised his eyes to meet his.

"You have heart." He said. The crease between Sherlock's eyebrows deepened and he lifted his left hand to rest on John's.

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one." Sherlock mused.

John cocked his eyebrow and tilted his head towards him, so close that their noses touched.

"Well, weren't they wrong?" he breathed on his lips. Sherlock closed his eyes, a shudder running through his body, transferring through John's arm, affecting them both. He could taste his warm breath on his tongue; feel his longing to press their lips together… His lips tingled with a yearning for John's. Closing his own eyes, John breathed Sherlock in before pulling away. Looking down at his shoes he backed away, sat back down on his sofa chair, grabbing his tea and clutching it firmly. Sherlock placed his hand on the fireplace near his skull for support. An awkward pause filled the air of 221B, confusion painting the space between the two men. The craving for the other was obvious, but neither wanted to confront it, for fear of what it would do to their relationship, fear of what it would mean, of what they mean to the other. John cleared his throat as though he intended to say something, but those lips that had nearly touched Sherlock's cupid bow did not part. It was Sherlock who eventually broke the silence.

"So… Are you going to stay at that rubbish hotel, or are you coming home finally?" Those words rang through Johns head: home. Home was where Sherlock was…

"I'll call Mrs. Hudson at work today, let her know. Speaking of which…." John had taken out his phone and looked at the time, seeing that his alarm would go in a few minutes, disturbing them. He could feel Sherlock's smile of approval.

"I wish I could come with you. I miss the hospital. I also miss your blog posts."

"I thought you didn't like my opinions." John shot back jokingly.

"Doesn't mean I never enjoyed them."

John chuckled at his response, but something tugged at the back of his mind.

"Whose phone did you use to text me?" "What do you mean?" Sherlock said, acting innocently.

"Oh, you know full well: when I sent out that email yesterday morning, you texted me, telling me I wasn't OK. You were right, by the way."

"When am I not?" he scoffed. "I found a mobile by the bridge while I was with my homeless network."

"So you just took it?" John said.

"Of course." Sherlock replied. John snorted, happy to have the old Sherlock back. Just then, Johns alarm went off, and Sherlock's mask broke. He found himself crouched at John's side, his hand resting on his arm.

"Don't go." Sherlock said.

"Really?" John replied.

"Yes."

They stayed there with their eyes locked for sometime, just absorbing the fact that they had finally spoken the words that had gone unsaid each time John left. Finally, he lifted his hand, placing it on Sherlock's arm delicately.

"This is real, isn't it? You're not in my dreams are you? Because if this is a dream, it's a big improvement from all my other dreams that you're in."

Sherlock shook his head.

"I'm not going anywhere. I promise you." John pondered this carefully. At last, he spoke.

"Just this once, I will go to the hospital and work a half day, tell them I won't be in for a while, grab my things from the hotel, and then I'll be back."

"Don't be too long, Dr. Watson." Sherlock said.

"I won't be, Mr. Holmes. I've missed you for far too long to be away from you longer than I have to." John restrained from the urge to raise his hand and cup Sherlock's cheek, his thumb caressing his high, sharp cheekbone. Instead, his grabbed his arm away from Sherlock's grasp and grappled for his cane, leaning on it as he got up before he realized that he didn't need it. Grabbing his coat instead, he walked towards the door. Sherlock got up from his crouched position, twirling on the spot to face John, who was opening the door to leave, but clearly not wanting to. His cane lay on the floor by his chair, but he did not care, or need it. He needed Sherlock.

"I don't want to go." He gasped.

"I don't want you to either" Sherlock stated plainly.

John's body gave an involuntary jerk before he followed it and he was carried by his legs, across the room. He reached out for Sherlock's face and pulled it towards him with soft force, pausing delicately and cupping Sherlock's supple, willing face in his hands before bringing it to meet his own, their lips locking. Sherlock's hands reached out to grasp John's waist and shoulders, pulling him closer as their lips moved in harmony, their unspoken desire was shouting through the halls, telling the world that, at last, they had found each other. They belonged to each other and no one else. Sherlock's tongue was in John's mouth, his lips moving with unknown expertise. They could taste each others excitement and eagerness, their unrestrained love for each other. They were one as they held one another in their arms, lips moving together, wet with the other's saliva. Suddenly, John pulled away reluctantly. Sherlock stared hungrily into his eyes before grabbing the back of his head and shoulders again, bringing their lips together again, and again, and again. Finally, lips swollen and his mouth lingering on Johns, he spoke in a slow, sad manner.

"You should go."

"Mmm, I should. Doesn't mean I want to though." He murmured into his mouth.

"I'll still be here, I promise you." Sherlock breathed. With that, John pulled away, turned on the spot, grabbing his coat again, and marched away before he could follow his craving and return to Sherlock's embrace, their lips never parting, never having to speak the obvious, for they both knew it: they loved each other, more than they loved their own lives.


	4. Finally

**Finally**

**Part 4 of a Johnlock fanfiction. Please give credit to McCol Iles (on Instagram believeinsherlock_cumberbatch) Inspired by the many pictures, edits and sayings on Instagram.**

_I wanna say it out loud  
I don't wanna try and hide it  
I wanna let it all out  
So that you know  
What you do to my life  
The way you make it better  
Don't wanna let it go  
Want to let it go_

My darling I'm falling in love with you  
There's something colliding in my heart  
Love has got me now  
My darling, I'm falling  
~Chris Mann- Falling

"You sure you'll be okay dear?"  
"Yes, thank you Mrs. Hudson. I think its time to get back, got to go back some time don't I?" John was talking slowly into his phone, trying to incorporate into his talk the heavy sadness that had finally left him after a month of sorrow. He must have done an admirable job, for he could hear Mrs. Hudson begin to tear up on the other line.  
"I miss him too, you know, in my own way. It's crazy, but sometimes I swear that I can hear the violin playing one of his invented tunes through the night. But, I guess, old ears, old memories. It gets a bit tedious, I'll tell you that." She said, sniffling a bit. "Well, I suppose you need to get back to work, don't you? Ill let you go then. Do you still have your key? I haven't turned the utilities off so that should be fine."  
"Yes, thank you. You've been far too kind." John replied quickly. He wanted to finish with work so that he could return home, for he felt as though every minute away from it increased the chance that the night before had been a dream.  
"Well, I know that he meant a lot to you. Probably more then you know, I think. You were always..." Mrs. Hudson seemed as though she had to stop herself from continuing, but he knew full well what she was going to say. "Well, I'm right there if you'll be needing me. Ill see you around I suppose?"  
"Er, you know, seeing as it's just me I think Ill be okay. Um, Ill call you." John said in a tangle of words. He felt the need to keep the reason of his return a secret and if she or anyone made the discovery of it... the thought made him feel uneasy.  
"You'll be wanting your privacy then, dear?"  
"Yes please, Mrs. Hudson."  
"No worries dear, anything you need." She cooed in a motherly tone. It struck John in the most peculiar way so he quickly said goodbye as to avoid any real emotion from seeping out and destroying the very steady and strong façade he had been creating. Pulling the mobile away from his ear he clicked the 'end' button and tossed it onto the desk before leaning back into his chair, covering his face with his hands and heaving a strained sigh, the sleepless nights of the past month truly taking their toll. But it wasn't just that, and he knew it, but it's what he told himself.

A knock sounded at the door of his small makeshift office, making him jerk back to reality, dropping his hands off of his face and beckon the person inside.  
"Come in." He called roughly, clearing his throat. The door squeezed open and the face of the hospital manager, Janet, peered in. She had a kind, young face though she had to be at least in her forties.  
"How are you..." she started. "Jesus, John, you look awful!" Her face was wide with surprise as she took in his face. It was true, he really did look awful.

For the past month John had been enveloped in deep sorrow and had thrown himself into his work here, probably being the best worker they had ever had, but he had been neglecting his basic needs of food and sleep. He had always kept a cheery look about him to cover up his drained, pained face, for smiles filled his hollow cheeks and widening his eyes hid the bags under them. But Janet had caught him off guard and now his face hung gauntly and the sleepless nights and lack of nutrition obvious in the deep half moons under his eyes and tight face. She shook her head at him.  
"I don't know how any of us haven't seen this! Wow, we must have been working you to the bone! Go home and get some sleep, we'll see you next week." she said loudly but still in a soft manner. John creased his brow and leaned forward, masking his rush of sudden excitement of the thought of going home early.  
"But I said I'd be here for the half day and-" he began. Janet flicked her hand at him dismissively; a movement that made the aching for him increase, for it was very Sherlock-esque.  
"No, I insist. We can function just perfectly without you, you know? You just make our lives easier. Sure, we'll miss you, but you deserve the break, so go home to whoever it is that loves you and get some sleep." She told John with a firm and happy air to her. Her comment about 'go home to whoever it is that loves you' caught John, making a lump form in his throat and his heart beat faster. He straightened up and stared at the wall beside Janet plainly, trying to collect himself. At this time, Janet had realized what it was that she had said and she made a movement to get near to John to console him, but he resumed his happy mask, staring her in the face, stopping her in her tracks. He did not want to be touched right now; for his emotions were a roller coaster and he did not know where they would go if anyone laid even a finger on him.  
"Thank you, Janet, I will do that. If you need me, you'll text, okay? Don't you think that I cant come in. I won't be too busy." The words came out of his mouth quickly before he could stop them. He wished he hadn't, for his meaning was the exact opposite. He would not want to come in, and for the busy part, well, he could dream, couldn't he? He breathed a sigh of relief when Janet spoke again.  
"Oh, don't count on it Dr. Watson. We will be perfectly fine. I order you to go on your week break, and you know what, with all that over time you have done, it's a paid holiday. Thankfully, we can afford that. So, off you go then!" She said it with a smirk on her face as she looked at his stunned expression slowly turn into that of an excited little boy before he gathered himself into a professional stature again.  
"Thank you Ms. McEwan. It's great to be surrounded by such good people."  
"Yes, well after..." She looked away at this time, not continuing her sentence. But they both knew what it was about, and John was terribly thankful that she did not continue. An awkward silence filled the room before John got to his feet and reached for his cane, which was absent from its regular place. Bad news. He tried to shake it off, looking Janet in the face.  
"Thank you, again. I guess Ill be going then."  
"Yes, we'll see you next week then, I guess." She replied, attempting a small smile. John bent around his desk, leaning on it heavily, knowing that he could not walk without it. Janet had started to leave the room but stopped seeing that he was having troubles.  
"Did you forget your cane?" She asked.  
"Yeah, it would seem so." He shook his head, remembering how he felt leaving the flat that morning, but that feeling had left him and his limp was back in full swing. She looked at him quizzically.  
"Well, wait there a minute, Ill get you something." She ducked out of the room, returning a minute later, holding a cane similar to his own.  
"Well, thanks again Janet." He said, nodding and briefly looking her in the eyes before back down at his feet, putting the cane under him and leaning on it. He could feel Janet's eyes on him but he expected nothing of it, as many others had looked down on him in pity but none had or would ever act on it. But she did. She stepped towards him, putting her hand gently on his arm in warm comfort.

His head jerked up to meet her face, which was staring into his own eyes intently, full of sympathy and familiarity. Her approach intrigued John but the fact that she was acting on pity and a potential interest in him repelled John, however, he knew that he wasn't repulsed by just the idea of being pitied. He pursed his lips, the creases between his brow deepening, and reflexively leaned away from her touch. His response had obviously wounded Janet, sending a wave of confusion and hurt over her face. He looked away, avoiding her eyes though her hand still rested on his arm. He was embarrassed of what he felt, though he knew that she could not know what was going on in his mind. He did not long for her touch or any woman's touch.

This was a confusing and bizarre awareness: the knowledge that he did not long for the love of the opposite sex, the kiss and touch of a woman and though he may have wished that it wasn't true, these feelings, he could not deny them.  
"Erm..." He could not find his tongue and simply stood there awkwardly. He cleared his throat audibly and looked down at the floor again. His desire to get away was clear in his tensed and uncomfortable posture as he leaned up against the borrowed cane, away from the hand of the hospital manager.  
But it seemed as though Janet had not picked up on his body language in the way that it was intended, and she pressed further, clearly thinking that he was hurt and was calling out for help. Little did she know that he longed to be in the arms of someone who was believed to be six feet down in the ground.  
She leaned in, deepening her gaze, her attraction to him obvious in her stance, the way she held her gaze and the angle of her head, which pulled his eyes back round to look at her again.  
"I know that the past month has been hard for you, John. I hope that you know that we're here for you. You're part of this family now. Actually, I kind of think that you're more than family, really." When she said that, she lowered her eyes, but her fingers clenched lightly on John's arm. He knew where she was going with this and he did not want her to. But before he could make a movement away from her or utter a word, her head whipped up and looked at him from under her eyebrows in an attempt at a smoulder. It more struck John as a beat puppy, begging for attention of some sort.  
"I get lonely too, sometimes. I lost a really good friend a few months back. It hurt but I... I think I'm over it, I think that I can move on now." John did not like how she was talking as though he was a child and had to be spoken to slowly to understand though her tone was terribly suggestive nonetheless. He straightened up as far as his cane permitted him, tensing and leaning backwards even more so. Somehow, Janet still did not pick on these signs and continued on.  
"Would you like to go to lunch? I wouldn't mind getting to know you better, outside in the 'office' I mean. How about it? I know a great pace around the corner." She proposed. There wasn't even a pause before John angled towards her, narrowing his eyes and words rushed out of his mouth.  
"Why would I eat if I'm not hungry?" He jerked away from her, wishing that he wasn't in the office, that he was on his way home to the flat and Sherlock. The thought of being attracted to a woman seemed foreign to him now, and the aspect of being in contact with someone he did not long to be with repulsed him.  
"Well...Um..." his reaction had obviously hurt her but he could not bring himself to feel for her, despite her solid attempts at flirtation and comfort, he felt nothing close to attraction for her. "I really should be going. Tired." He mumbled unintelligibly. Janet dropped her hand and stepped back, plainly hurt and bewildered. She assessed him with concerned eyes before opening her mouth to speak.  
"I'm sorry. I've made you uncomfortable. Its just, I've admired you for a while now and I know its unprofessional but... Well, I'm sorry." She turned away and reached for the door to leave.  
"It's OK, Janet, really. I just don't think it's a good idea. I don't see you in that way." John said hurriedly.  
"Well," she said "I guess we'll see you next week then."  
"Yes, I guess you will." And with that, he squeezed past her, out the door and down the hospital hallway, to go home to the one who loved him; at least he hoped he did.

Sherlock paced up and down the flat madly, around and around, up and down the stairs. No one was home and he anxiously awaited the moment when someone would be, for that person was the one he had spent what seemed like an eternity missing. It was so bizarre, for Sherlock, to be overridden with emotion this way. It caused him to forget to look and observe the world around him at times, but he embraced the crazy roller coaster like he did with so many of his cases. He was now up in the main flat again, flying through the door and slamming it shut behind him. Throwing his head back to the ceiling he growled viciously, his features taking on a frenzied, angry state which matched his emotions perfectly.  
He wished that he could grasp what it all meant, because for the first time in his life, he felt something worse than doubt: he felt uncertainty, the lack of knowledge. All he had was a belief that he was feeling, feeling things that he had never before experienced before, feelings that he believed impossible for him to have. He had forever avoided the sentiments that the ordinary people filled their lives with, but here it was, strangling him with loves infamous grip. He tried to fight against it, but he could feel his cold, defined logic and reasoning losing out. So, just once, he let it take over, letting himself experience the absurd ways that love contaminates the mind.  
Sherlock circled around the flat in wild patterns, changing his direction on the turn of dime. He could not make head or tail of what he had experienced when finally John was back in his arms the night before, though he could suppose that they were akin to the poisonous kiss of love. He had always known that his emotions and feelings were an area that he had explored little of and knew next to nothing about, but he had always imagined that he had the idea of what went on inside that heart, but now he knew that he could deduce nothing about it.  
He threw himself into his chair, his navy robe hanging about him wildly. He wore his purple dress shirt under it, tucked into his simple black trousers. He was completely and entirely bored, but he had no way of relieving himself from this little patch of hell. His hands went up to his hair, mussing it for about the hundredth time since John had left and growling again in angst. He stretched out lazily in the chair, his legs spreading out across the floor and slouching far back into it.  
Laying there for a few minutes, his mind chasing thoughts frantically, he straightened up partially and spared a glance at the clock on the wall. Despite the thrice rewound hands and scratched face, it told him that it would be another three hours before he could have his John back. He dropped back in the sofa chair, sighing exasperatedly. He began to close his eyes, perhaps shut his mind off and try to relax, resist the urge to use his remaining storage of nicotine patches hiding in his skull. But then, he could hear it; a cab stop outside. It pulled up to the curb and its brakes squeed to a halt. Waiting, Sherlock could hear the cab door open and slam shut. He leapt from the chair and bounded to the window, looking out onto the street, his robe waving around crazily. He flung the curtain fully open and peered down on the street. And there he was, getting stiffly out from his cab: John. Sherlock's face split open with a wide grin as he flew back to the chair, yanking off his flowy housecoat and throwing it on the chair. He jumped up in the air gleefully, shouting with exuberance.  
"Yes! Finally! At last!" The pained and uneven footsteps of John's made their way up the elderly, hollow steps, nearing the landing, on the landing, his obviously borrowed cane echoing heavily against the wooden floorboards. A dead calm washed over Sherlock but his excitement leaked out and as he stood there anxiously in the middle of the flat, unsure as what to do, he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. John's hand rose up to grasp the door knob and rested there for a few seconds. During this pause, Sherlock began to fret. He had no idea why he was so anxious and why he should feel anything similar to this gut wrenching panic as to what he should do. He hands had hung limp at his sides and they started to fidget, unknowing to what he should do with them. After trying several positions in a flash, he settled for clasping them behind his back just as John twisted the handle and the door swung open. There he stood, his military style jacket covering his plaid shirt that hung loosely on his slender, thin frame. His hair was in its usual style though it was perhaps a bit crazed.

_Agitated, longing for comfort. Sleepless night, accompanied by many before that. Lack of nutrition, obvious in the cheekbones and slightly sunken face. Worried, creased brow more dominant. Aged few years in the past month. Hardened perspective, lack of any kind of trust. Potential confrontation, possibly violent, verbal or otherwise. Pursed lips, concentrating. Concentrating on what..? His eyes, they convey the emotion of intensity, sadness... Love?_

This was the first time Sherlock had been able to truly look at John and deduce him, and though it had only taken him mere seconds to total what John had been through, the trip had taken him an eon to realize that it was a truly possible thing that John felt the same as Sherlock did.  
They stood there for what seemed like ages, simply staring at each other, drinking in the fact that the other was still there, that it was real, that they could touch the other and not be woken up from the dream. He still stood in the middle of the door of 221B, staring at Sherlock who was poised, waiting, hands behind his back and in that purple shirt that never failed to send shivers up and down his spine. It framed his body in a beautiful form, tucking in closely to his shapely waist, accentuating his broad upper body perfectly.  
He could feel Sherlock studying him and he felt like an open book being read thoroughly by a loving and dedicated reader who had come back for another read. And he let him, glad to be examined again by the man who knew his every breath better than himself. He could sense his gaze settle on his lips, then his eyes. John looked into Sherlock's face and watched its deduction go through the stages. His brow knit together momentarily before realization spread blankly across his high lined forehead. He then closed those gems of eyes shut for what could have been no more than half a second before they snapped open again and they let go of their eternal mask to reveal his soul. Love and relief mixed with misery were painted on his eyes and face, his frame loosened, opening up to him, his hands dropping to his sides. He watched Sherlock's chest rise, the buttons straining against the movement and a shudder ripped through his torso. With that, Sherlock rocked forwards and closed the space between them. At the last moment he stretched his arms outwards to embrace John, gripping him as close to his body as was possible, resting his face in the crook of Johns shoulder. He reached his chin out before bringing it to nuzzle up against Sherlock's collarbone, closing his eyes, letting the beauty of the embrace spread over his being. All of the worry and stress seemed to fall off his body as he stood there in this mans embrace. And right then, the consciousness of the situation reached John and he finally knew and could acknowledge the truth: that the only human being he wished to be with was this man. A singular thought took over his mind, making him smile into Sherlock's chest: He was a Holmosexual. Without a warning of any sort, Sherlock brought his head up from the sanctuary of Johns shoulder and stepped away, gesturing for John to enter the room. As he limped in, Sherlock placed a long fingered hand on the door, closing it gently.  
He pivoted on his cane to face Sherlock, possibly talk and tell him how he felt, but Sherlock was a mile ahead of him.  
The moment John turned around to look at him, Sherlock was there, one hand reaching to cup his waist while the other moved up with back up to grasp his head, bringing it close. He paused for a heartbeat; letting the moment linger on their lips, paint the air scarlet. Then Sherlock leaned forwards, closing the minuscule gap and their lips met. Their lips moved together as though they were made for the other, at first with slow passion, then frenzied hunger. The flat melted away around them, no longer existing until it was just them in the world, the world full of nothing but their unspoken love. They were lost in each other, neither ever wanting to leave. They stayed there until they lost track of time, it occurred to John that he had dropped his cane and his hands were wrapped around Sherlock's slender build, but none of that mattered.  
Finally, he pulled away, but just. He rested his swollen, wet lips on Sherlock's and spoke slowly.  
"I don't want to love you but... I do. Sherlock, I really do." He could feel Sherlock smile against his lips before he picked up the kiss again, this time in a hunger and intensity that John could have never thought possible from anyone, let alone the man who had spent decades running from this emotion. He did not expect Sherlock to respond, and he honestly could have cared less if he did. But then, Sherlock slowed, letting the kiss linger on Johns lips until he had pulled away totally and he was looking into Johns eyes with a crazed earnestness, his adorable cupid's bow swollen with kissing. And then those lips spoke, spoke deep resonating words that could have filled a millennium with happiness.  
"So this is love. Thank you for showing me just how resplendent it is." And just then, without even saying the words, Sherlock had shouted the three syllables John had forever longed to hear.  
'I love you.'

_"Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side... I imagine John Watson thinks love is a mystery to me, but the chemistry is very simple and _very destructive_… This is your heart and you should never let it rule your head... I always thought love was a dangerous disadvantage... Thank you for the final proof."_  
"Gahhh!" Sherlock shot up right in his bed, sheets tangled around his legs and torso. His inside out shirt was damp with sweat and he panted heavily, his hair a crazy mess and his eyes wide.  
This dream was nothing new to Sherlock, for it was a reoccurring one from the past year that never failed to alarm him. And until this night, he had forever been unable to understand it. But now he did, clear as day. How could he have not seen it before?  
_'I've beaten you... Turns out your ordinary... Ordinary Sherlock...'  
_He gasped painfully as the voice hissed in his brain. He grabbed at his hair with clenched fists, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to press the memory from his head.  
_'Ordinary... Normal… You're on the side of the angels...'  
_A maddened growl burst from his lips and he released his fists, snatched the blankets and throwing them off of himself, swinging his legs off the bed and planted his feet on the floor. His shirt clung to him uncomfortably as it began to dry and his grey bottoms were shifted but he paid them no attention. Ignoring his robe he opened his door quietly and crept out into the flat, making his way towards John's room. He paused outside his door, listening to the flat breathe, hear John move in his bed, inhale and exhale loudly. Stealthily, Sherlock managed the door open until it gave him full view of the room. And there he lay, one hand resting on his chest, the other near his head, the sheets covering his body; the man who loved him back, the only man who truly knew who he was, the only one who sincerely cared about him. He was John, his John. A beam of light from the curtained window fell on John's torso, lighting his shirt that fitted him closely, showing his lightly muscled chest.  
Sherlock stole into his room, each footstep landing lithely on the floorboards, gliding on the rug until he was at John's bedside, watching his chest rise and fall rhythmically, peacefully. And for once, Sherlock cherished the peaceful silence, listening to John live. A smile caressed Sherlock's lips and he sunk to the floor, rocking back onto he balls of his feet. He reached out his hand, resting it on John's bed near his body. He drank in the fact that this dream was real, that the man who lay there finally acknowledged that he was enchanted by Sherlock, that this man could love Sherlock the way he loved him. The bliss shuddered through his body.  
John moved suddenly, the hand that had been lying on his own chest shifted, falling to his side, near to touching Sherlock's. Sherlock stopped his own breathing, tensed. He waited a few heartbeats before he extended his fingers, lightly grazing John's hand, feeling his warmth under his touch. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.  
Quickly, he swung back onto his feet, spun on the spot and glided out of the room. As he reached the door, pulling it closed behind him, he spared a glance back through the mostly closed door. There was the man who saved him, and his only wish was that he could do the same.  
With that, he closed the door delicately, listening for the ensuring click of the door to tell him that he had left without a trace and his midnight visit would exist to no one but himself. A peaceful calm had swept over him as he strolled back to his room, opened the door and sat back down on his bed, staring at his darkened wall. Breathing deeply he tried to organize his thoughts which were muddled with sleep deprivation and his dream. Finally he collapsed backwards on his bed letting a dreamless sleep take him with the thought of Johns touch and how, for once, the peace wasn't so hateful at all.

The door clicked behind Sherlock and John slowly raised himself onto his elbows, smiling. He had been awoken by the click of the door opening, but he had not moved, allowing Sherlock to come in and crouch by his bedside. John had given no indication whatsoever that he was awake, though the fact that Sherlock was there in his room sent waves of joy through his body. He had dropped his hand off his chest in an offer to him, which after a few moments, Sherlock accepted, placing his fingertips on the back of his hand. Not soon after, he had strode out of the room, softly closing the door and heading off to his room again.  
He looked over to his bedside table where his alarm clock read him the time in large red numbers: 3:21 am. He fell back into the bed, contemplating the midnight visit and what had caused it. Perhaps it was his own way of showing how he cared, for then again he had little experience in the area of expressing himself towards others in any emotional way. His mind raced with various possibilities and it would not turn off. Finally, after the thought of Sherlock hoping he would awake and then he could talk, and just what would he talk about, danced through Johns mind, he tried to fall back asleep. But after several minutes of tossing and turning, his brain refusing to stop its many trains of thought, he bolted upright, staring across his familiar room. There on the back of his door was one of Sherlock's scarves, one of navy and light blue stripes. He remembered when Sherlock had come barging into his room with him many months ago, rambling on about a case they had just solved.  
John just sat there, smiling amusedly as he watched Sherlock's enthusiasm about how the man had managed to murder a woman with ice and poison, leaving nothing but a clue that no one had seen except for Sherlock: that the murder had left the patio door ajar, leading to evidence and information so plentiful it made even Anderson feel dumb.  
_"Can you believe them John?" he said, tugging off his scarf expertly before tossing it on the dresser, which fell to the floor. "Missing something as big as that? Seriously, even Anderson could have managed to look off that balcony and seen it! So oblivious! It was the Van coon murder all over again!"  
John had simply smiled dully and shook his head as Sherlock shrugged off his long coat and hung it over his arm.  
"Well, they are idiots, aren't they? You said so yourself, practically everyone is. Shouldn't be so surprised that they missed things like that."  
He sighed heavily before grudgingly agreeing with John.  
"Tea?" he asked.  
"Yes, of course." John relied. Sherlock had turned on his heel and marched off towards the kitchen, throwing the coat on the table chair. John stayed behind in his room, hanging up his coat behind his door. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the fallen scarf, picked it up and hung it up beside the coat before leaving to listen to Sherlock rant on and on about the case until it finally bored him. It doesn't take much to bore Sherlock, so before long he was itching for a new case, and not too soon after he was rewarded with the case that made his career as well as felled it: The Reichenbach. _  
The smile slipped from Johns face and his mind stopped for a few seconds before memories from that case flew through his mind before they ended up on Sherlock's eyes wide and lifeless, his face smeared with blood people pulling him away from the only friend he had ever really had.  
Sickness spread through him, and he squeezed his eyes against the images, pressing his hands against his face as though he wished to pluck the memory from his brain entirely. The pictures eventually faded away and he took a deep breath before releasing it shakily, refusing to think about that day. Leaning over his bed to the alarm clock, he hit the radio which began to quietly play music, a hopeful attempt to calm him. A new tune played through the invisible speaker. He had come in at the beginning of the song and it began to lull him, the electronic, ethereal sound comforting him. It soon began to change, and the man started to sing.  
_"Aren't you somethin' to admire, cause your shine is somethin' like a mirror  
And I can't help but notice, you reflect in this heart of mine  
If you ever feel alone and the glare makes me hard to find  
Just know that I'm always parallell on the other side_"  
John stopped his heavy breathing, listening to this bizarrely beautiful song. The melody of the song changed, and the chorus poured through the radio.  
_"Cause with your hand in my hand and a pocket full of soul  
I can tell you there's no place we couldn't go  
Just put your hand on the glass, I'll be tryin' to pull you through  
You just gotta be strong  
Cause I don't wanna lose you now  
I'm lookin' right at the other half of me  
The vacancy that sat in my heart  
Is a space that now you hold  
Show me how to fight for now  
And I'll tell you baby, it was easy  
Comin' back into you once I figured it out  
You were right here all along  
It's like you're my mirror  
My mirror staring back at me  
I couldn't get any bigger  
With anyone else beside of me  
And now it's clear as this promise  
That we're making two reflections into one  
Cause it's like you're my mirror  
My mirror staring back at me, staring back at me"_  
John fell back into his bed, letting the song take him away, and with every word, Sherlock's face beamed at him. He dozed off in bliss, dreaming of the man who had given him his life back, and no matter how difficult he had made living for him, he had given him a life worth living.


	5. My Heart

**My Heart**

**Part 5 of a Johnlock fanfiction. Please give credit to McCol Iles (on Instagram believeinsherlock_cumberbatch) Inspired by the many pictures, edits and sayings on Instagram.**

"_You're the sky that I fell through__  
__And I remember the view whenever I'm holding you__  
__The sun hung from a string__  
__Looking down on the world as it warmed over everything__  
__Chills run down my spine as our fingers intwine__  
__And your sighs harmonize with mine__  
__Unmistakably I can still feel your heart__  
__Beat fast when you dance with me_

_Circle me and the needle moves gracefully__  
__Back and forth__  
__If my heart was a compass you'd be north__  
__Risk it all cause I'll catch you when you fall__  
__Wherever you go__  
__If my heart was a house you'd be home__It makes me smile because you said it best__  
__I would clearly feel blessed if the sun rose up from the west__  
__Flower balm perfume, all my clothes smell like you__  
__Cause your favourite shade is navy blue__  
__I walk slowly when I'm on my own (Do you feel alive?)__  
__Yeah, but frankly I still feel alone (Oh, but you'll survive)__  
__So I may as well ditch my dismay__  
__Bombs away, bombs away"_

_~If My Heart was a House, You Would Be Home- Owl City_

Opening the door, John groggily left his bedroom- relying on his cane after being unable to shake his limp- his robe draped over his shoulders and nightshirt. Closing it behind him he tied the robe around his waist and lolled over to the living area. Yawning widely as he entered the room, scrunching up his face, he was greeted by an alert and distinguished voice of over compensation.

"Good morning, John. Fancy a tea?" Sherlock asked. John closed his face to examine Sherlock's innocent smile and his long fingered hand that was outstretched, gesturing to the tea that sat on a tray on the coffee table. He was clothed in nothing but his white sheet, which was falling off his left shoulder, exposing a patch of refined shoulder and collar bone. Glancing away quickly and then back, blush spreading over his face, John looked at him with a smirk of confusion and amusement before advancing and plunking himself down in his usual seat.

"What have you done now, Sherlock?" John half jokingly asked. He knew him too well and the fact that he had made the effort of preparing tea meant that he was either doing an experiment or apologizing for something. As John sat there and assessed the situation Sherlock got up, clutching the cloth around his body and poured the tea, carefully despite being one handed. Finally John decided that it was still in an act of apology for the grief he had caused, as there was nothing set up for experimenting and the flat was still perfectly clean and in order: a result, he could only guess, of Molly's affection for Sherlock. This immediately made John feel protective and jealous of Sherlock. Suddenly, Sherlock was thrusting a cup of tea in Johns face.

"Ah, thank you." He took a sip before stopping and smirking at Sherlock as he organized himself and sheet, tea in hand and placed himself in his chair. He delicately parted his lips to drink from his cup. "Not going to put any clothes on?"

Sherlock lowered his cup, cocking his head.

"Last time you asked if I was wearing any pants. And I am wearing clothes." As he said that, the sheet dropped off his shoulder further until it showed a good portion of his chest. John straightened up, taking in the sight of Sherlock's figure. Sherlock peeked down at the fallen sheet. "Ah, bugger that." John shook his head, taking a sip of his tea again to hide the smile that had bloomed over his face.

"Mm, its good tea, Sherlock." He gave a nod of approval and Sherlock raised his cup as a salute to his words, a smile lifting his features considerably. Something was off, John could feel it. Sherlock was never one to be held by regular emotions in that way let alone to show them. He wanted something or was hiding something. With that thought, John bristled. Sherlock had hidden far too much from him and if that was the case...

He snapped back as he noticed Sherlock studying him, a finger draped across his curvy lips, eyes narrowed. As he noticed John's awareness of his appraisal he straightened up and gave a small smile.

Putting his tea back down, John interlaced his fingers and rested his chin on the bridge they had formed. He peered at Sherlock who was raising the tea to his lips again. A tingle spread through John's body but he tried to push it aside.

"You're awfully quiet, Sherlock. Why's that?" he asked with an unfortunate air of a therapist seeping into his voice. He cursed himself for that as Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

'"Oh, please. Stop trying to make small talk when you have nothing to say. It makes for too much awkwardness and you appear to be much more idiotic than you are." A smirk took over his features as he glared mischievously

"Oh, so I'm not such an idiot then, I just make myself look like one."

"Precisely." Sherlock replied dully, his eyes twinkling. They looked each other in the eyes, never breaking eye contact. Sherlock's ice blue eyes captivated John and he would have lost himself in them if Sherlock hadn't gone to take another sip of tea, his lips resting delicately on the rim, arcing as the liquid rushed past his cupids bow and his long neck moved as he swallowed. Unintentionally, John emitted a low guttural sound, his own lips parting. Sherlock lowered his cup marginally, resting it in front of his exposed collar bone. He looked him up and down before chuckling to himself and taking another sip, his lips embracing the cup.

Suddenly, John was out of his chair, his cane lay forgotten on the floor, and was heading towards Sherlock, who lowered his cup, resting it on his sheet covered knee.

"John, what are you-" He was cut off as John closed in and angled his head, bringing their lips together. John took his time, kissing him simply, savouring the feel of those lips on his, the leftover tea moistening the touch. Sherlock's hand rose up and cupped Johns jaw. John pressed his lips passionately against Sherlock's before slowly breaking away from his face.

"What am I doing? I'm kissing you because I felt jealous of your tea." he murmured.

"Ah, so you felt the need to come over here and disrupt our relationship? My tea may never recover from the shock, the poor thing." Sherlock joked.

"I'm sure it will get over it."

"Perhaps. Or maybe it will grow cold out of spite and never let me enjoy it again." Sherlock said sadly. John looked him in the eyes questioningly.

"What?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"Oh, nothing. Now," Sherlock grabbed the back of John's head, burying his fingers in his hair, tips grasping his skull, bringing his face closer. "Do that again." he whispered.

"So…" Sherlock offered. He sat on the couch, reading a book, Johns head in his lap. Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, playing with his sandy blond locks absent minded. John lowered his book down onto his chest and tilted his head back to look at Sherlock, one hand on his own book and the other on his belly, his legs propped up on the arm of the couch.

"So… what?" he asked innocently. Sherlock stayed silent for a moment before he opened his mouth.

"You've confronted your sexuality then?" he asked as though he were commenting on the weather.

John paused and contemplated this blunt question, pushing out his bottom lip in thought. "Yes?" Sherlock pressed.

John gave a chuckle and responded.

"I thought I made it rather obvious when I leapt into your arms this morning, and the day before that and the day before that."

"I want to hear you say it John. If you never say it we'll never be sure and then maybe some girl will come flitting by and scoop you away and Ill be left here with my skull again and cleaning, alone and…" Sherlock began to fret, a strange emotion to hear come from him and to experience. In a sorry attempt to hide his face he brought his book up and hid his face from view, bringing it as close to his face as he could without touching it. John brought his hand up, grabbing the book and bringing it down as to look at Sherlock while he talked

"Sherlock, I love you. Okay? You make me want to live. Not just live, but with you, everyday. I can't even imagine wanting to be with a woman. I'm… I'm a Holmosexual." John stated.

A grin spread over Sherlock's face as he absorbed his meaning.

"Clever." he remarked.

"Well, I'm not really an idiot; I just make myself look like one, don't I?" John retorted. The grin remained on his face, widening blissfully. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the words that pushed their way out of his mouth, forcing his jaw open to tell John the words he hadn't ever uttered before, but longed to say.

"I love you."

A pregnant pause filled the room before John breathed in and let go of his book, raising his hand to caress his face. Looking him in his eyes, John smiled simply.

"I know you do." he said, happiness and affection pouring from each word. Sherlock was filled with a burning happiness as John said those words, knowing he meant them. He folded his body and touched his lips to John's forehead, lingering before straightening up, bringing his book back to his face, his eyes on the pages but not moving across the words.

"Did you really clean this place?" John blurted out.

"Yes."

"Impressive." John mused. Sherlock smiled to himself before turning his eyes back to the invisible words.

His life flitted past his eyes, a regular event for him, as he was forever questioning what he was. Before, it was simple, uncomplex and disappointing.

He would live alone in a world full of spiteful people, getting off on the fruitful lives of those who frowned scornfully at him and those whose hearts had ceased to beat. He would live out his days alone and beaten down people believing he was fine and that he enjoyed being him, being the man no one wanted to be around, the man they all wanted to be rid of, the psychopath, the _freak_. He would grow old and die, forgotten and wasted, and frightfully of all; alone. He had distanced himself from the world and the people that filled it, for none of them ever bothered to look at him the way that he did and they hated him for the fact that he did. He couldn't stand to be around them, for he already filled himself with enough hate. So he built a wall around himself, shielding himself with witty remarks, insults and the isolation of his whole being until he was solely a man of intellect, absent of emotion: because of the world.

But then came someone; a man fresh from battle, filled with a crushing depression and the feeling of uselessness, in need of adventure and fulfillment. And he had found that in someone, by pure fate alone. And that someone was a man of the name Sherlock Holmes. Suddenly, he had purpose and Sherlock wasn't an island anymore. They were made to be there for each other and give life hope for the other. A friendship blossomed from the fateful meeting, bringing forth the companionship and adventure that they both so desperately and unknowingly needed. And promptly, within that first day, Sherlock's perspective of his life changed. At last, his summary of life shifted, though not drastically, it still changed him: he was no longer _alone_. There was now someone who appreciated the fact that Sherlock wasn't ordinary, who relished in the things that Sherlock involved himself with and his brilliance that irked the rest of the world, who thought of Sherlock as 'amazing' and 'fantastic'. Suddenly, he wasn't just a freak and his surname ceased to fit him, for he had joined with another and his island became a mainland. The rest of the world had stayed the same, but at last there was someone who would stand by his side. The one person Sherlock had ever come to care for, truly and one that he would die for, and his name to be the last thing that would ever grace his lips.

Credit for transcript goes to  . 

( Listen to 'Our Love Would Be Legendary' and "For the Nights I Cant Remember' for this part)

_Hello?__  
_

_John.__  
_

_Hey, Sherlock, you okay?__  
_

_Turn around and walk back the way you came now.__  
_

_No, I'm coming in.__  
_

_Just do as I ask! Please.__  
_

_Where?__  
_

_Stop there.__  
_

_Sherlock?__  
_

_Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop.__Oh God.__  
_

_I ... I ... I can't come down, so we'll ... we'll just have to do it like this.__  
_

_What's going on?__  
_

_An apology. It's all true.__  
_

_Wh-what?__  
_

_Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.__  
_

_Why are you saying this?__  
_

_I'm a fake.__  
_

_Sherlock ...__  
_

_The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly ... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.__  
_

_Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met ... the__first time we met__, you knew all about my sister, right?__  
_

_Nobody could be that clever.__  
_

_You__could.__  
_

_I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you… _

_It's a trick. Just a magic trick.__No. All right, stop it now.__No, stay__exactly__where you are! Don't move!__  
_

_All right.__  
_

_Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please, will you do this for me?__  
_

_Do what?__  
_

_This phone call – it's, er ... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they – leave a note?__  
_

_Leave a note when?__  
_

_Goodbye, John.__  
_

_No. Don't._

_No._

_SHERLOCK!_

"SHERLOCK! NO!"

_Sherlock, Sherlock..._

"SHERLOCK! No, no, no, no, Jesus, NO! SHERLOCK!"

_You machine!_

"John, John! What's wrong? Alright, are you alright? John, what's wrong?" Sherlock was there, grasping Johns shoulder and shaking him, pulling John, writhing, from his nightmare, the sheets tangled about his body. John bolted up right, shaking and drenched in sweat. His heart beat loudly and heavily, pounding his frame, his breath short and panicked. He sat there, panting, staring at his open door before slowly turning his fear struck face to look at Sherlock. The room was near black though a stream of light passing through the window illuminated a patch of Sherlock's face. Sherlock held his hand on John's arm, his face lined with worry, shadowed by the dark of the room. His eyes were wide with fear and his lips parted minutely, waiting.

"John, are you alright?" he pressed again.

And John broke down. Sobs poured from his lips helplessly as he fell into Sherlock's waiting arms, burying his head in his chest and grappling at Sherlock's shoulders, pulling him as close as was possible into a death grip, his fingers digging into his lightly clothed back.

"Oh thank God, you're still here, you're here." John moaned. He stopped, catching his breath between sobs. Sherlock embraced him fully, his arms enveloping John's small frame and rested his chin on the top of his head, his forehead creased so deeply it would seem as though his face may just remain that way. He felt John's tears soak his shirt and his damp body tremor in his hold, shaking the bed. Slowly, unsurely, Sherlock began to rock John back and forth in his arms, still crouched at his bedside.

"Its okay now, I'm here, I'm here. Its alright now, it was just a dream." He assured him. John gasped deeply and pulled away from Sherlock's embrace, his gaze burning into Sherlock's eyes.

"No it wasn't. It wasn't, it was real, I was _there_, you bastard! You jumped, you jumped off that roof, and you_ killed _me! It was as real as you, because it was! It is not alright, you have no idea, Sherlock, the Hell you have put me through, you selfish git!" he hissed at him frantically. He gasped again, drawing in pained breaths, tears still streaming down his face. His hands were clawed on Sherlock's shoulders, holding him furiously.

Sherlock was quietly shaking his head, his eyes full of pain and emotion.

"I think I have the idea." Sherlock breathed.

Pausing, John stared at Sherlock's face through the waterfall of tears and saw the glistening trails that Sherlock's own tears had cut on his high defined cheekbones in as relentless a stream as his own, but completely and totally silent. John clenched his jaw, grabbing Sherlock and bringing him close again so that he sat on the bed with him and John leaned forward, resting his head on Sherlock's chest as they held each other.

"I'm sorry Sherlock, I'm sorry. I- I- I just…" John stuttered, unable to continue. He pursed his lips and took measured breaths, attempting to calm himself, though his breaths were wavering with each movement. "Don't ever leave me again. Please." he whispered firmly. Holding Johns shoulder and head, Sherlock bent his head down, kissing the top of his head, breathing in deeply.

"Move over." Sherlock muttered.

"What?"

"Move over." He repeated. He leant away from John, shaking him off. Confused, John shifted and made room on the bed, the sheets snaring him; making movement difficult. The moment John stopped Sherlock lay down and clutched John close to him, bringing him near to his body. John tensed until Sherlock held him steadily in his arms, then he relaxed and breathed, truly taking in Sherlock's musky, honey and tobacco scent, lulling him into a heavenly state, his tears becoming silent though his body still quaked occasionally. He closed his eyes and curled up against Sherlock, bliss settling his frame. And as John began to slip away, Sherlock started to talk, pulling him out of his stupor and letting him experience Sherlock's humanity that the world had taken away.

"I will never leave you again, John. You are my grounding post, I'd be lost without you, I told you that. Without you I would float around this world uselessly and without purpose. I never meant to fall in love with you, but it was inevitable, because you are my heart; I had lost it and found it again, in you. I used to be so alone, more than I like to think, and I thought I was okay, but I didn't realize just how much I needed someone, how much I needed _you_ until I had you and was moments from loosing you. The pain and fear tore me apart every time there was a sliver of chance that your heart would cease to beat, because that would mean mine would too and my world would implode without you to hold it up. It was then that I realized when you had those bombs strapped to your chest and a sniper pointed at our heart that I knew that you meant more to me than I had let myself believe.

"I asked you once, what you would say in your last few seconds of life. When I was having the life squeezed out of me, I never said anything elegant or purposeful of any sort; I only said your name. John, until my heart stops beating I shall love you. And even then I will find a way, because I love you from The Scotland Yard to Baker Street and back a thousand times over. I would be nothing without you, and if you think that you owe me so much, I owe you a hundred times more. With you, I'm not just intellect, I have a soul and a body and my heart back because of you. You brought me up from the depths of Hell and gave me light and life, you put everything on hold for me, and became my friend, and more than that- though I doubt that you knew it- you meant, and still do, mean the world to me. I'm sorry that I am so tedious and that I have caused you such wretched pain, but my only wish is to love you and keep you safe, and to never let you go. So, I beg of you, take care of my heart, John, because you are my everything and I don't know what I would do if I didn't have you anymore."

Sherlock broke off there and bent his head to kiss Johns nose.

"Sleep, my love, I'm not going anywhere." Sherlock stayed awake all night, never wanting to pass up a moment of basking in the presence of the light of his life. But as John fell into sleep, he whispered, so softly he may have not spoken at all. But he did.

"Ill never leave you. Not really, my heart."


	6. By Now

**Part ****6 By Now**

******Part 6 of a Johnlock fanfiction. Please give credit to McCol Iles (on Instagram believeinsherlock_cumberbatch) Inspired by the many pictures, edits and sayings on Instagram.**

_You never know when you're gonna meet someone__  
__And your whole wide world in a moment comes undone__  
__You're just walking around and suddenly__  
__Everything that you thought that you knew about love is gone__You find out it's all been wrong__  
__And all my scars don't seem to matter anymore__  
__Cause they led me here to you__I know that its gonna take some time__  
__I've got to admit that the thought has crossed my mind__  
__This might end up like it should__  
__And I'm gonna say what I need to say__  
__And hope to god that it don't scare you away__  
__Don't wanna be misunderstood__  
__But I'm starting to believe that this could be the start of something good_

_-Daughtry ~Start of Something Good_

"Have you ever been so… alive before?" It was Sherlock who asked the question, casting his eyes upon the man who lay beside him, their fingers entwined and their body's pressed close up against the other. In perfect and blissful harmony their chests rose under the half thrown off sheets and shirts. John inhaled as he lifted his head off of Sherlock's shoulder to look up at him, giving a beatific smile. He relaxed his head, laying it back on Sherlock's shoulder, but this time he rested his hand on his broad covered chest, fingers spread and natural. Sherlock wrapped his long arms around John's body as though he were of great value, a golden treasure he was afraid the world would take and tamper with, like a rich vein of gold found amidst the dark dull rock.

John lay there, considering the question at hand, weighing his response. And Sherlock let him take his time, savouring the glorious moment as he did with all the others.

It was the start of the forth day after he had gotten his John back and he had swiftly felt his humanity return to him in broad, humbling and foreign streaks, brought on by his realization of what he had been lacking in his life.

"In a way I guess. Never quite like this though." came Johns reply.

"What was it like before?" Sherlock asked him sleepily, fearing the response.

"Before, it was just… living. Things would happen, they would make me feel something, experience something and I would think 'So, this is life. Isn't that crazy.' I could acknowledge the fact of how life felt and what I did with it, but I guess I didn't exactly _feel_ alive. Just a shell of it really. But it's not as though I could realize the difference then."

"And you can now. How?" Sherlock pressed, curiosity in his voice, John chuckled.

"You, the great Sherlock Holmes, baffled? Well, this is new." John smiled, intrigued by seeing Sherlock so lax and natural without his usual air of pomp or brilliance about him. He was just Sherlock, the shield was down. John had never noticed it before, the shield he had, but as he noticed its absence, he was amazed that he had not seen it before.

"Oh, give me a break. I am hardly baffled; this is just new information to me."

"Same difference." John teased. He breathed deeply, inhaling Sherlock for the thousandth time before he continued. "I can just… feel it. There is no real difference, I suppose. I can see life in the same way, I know I live and breathe and… actually, you know what's different?"

"The fact that youre talking to someone who can actually understand what your saying? But many things I suppose. For one, you just went through a traumatic experience. You had been hit on by your hospital manager a few days ago. That would be strange enough, especially after learning of your massive though latent homosexual feelings towards…"

"Sherlock." John scolded.

"What?" Sherlock asked, confusion dotting his features as he dipped his chin to look down on John. Despite his coming humanity, hi cold defined logic and deduction had continued to leak out of him unexpectedly.

John sighed exasperatedly though he had been secretly pleased to see a bit of his old Sherlock back.

"What's different is that I now have what I didn't know I wanted. Yes, you're right. It was rather bizarre to feel no attraction to a woman- yet I have no idea how you know that- and the fact of my discovery was too alarming, but you know what? I don't mind it. Because I can finally feel what it is like to love truly and fully, and that makes me feel so free and alive, I don't know how to verbalize it: I just know it in my heart." He paused, thinking. "Do you feel like that, in some way or another?" he asked quietly, as though he were embarrassed by his question.

"I don't know. I have never felt anything like this before. I don't know what it that I am feeling." Sherlock murmured. John paused, letting that sink in.

"Never?" he asked. He could feel Sherlock's subtle nod and his jaw popped open in disbelief. "I don't know why I'm surprised really. You've always been..."

"Distant? I've always been that way, in some way. I never wanted to feel before. Emotions were for ordinary people, and I felt that I was above them, I wasn't ordinrary. But now… they don't seem so… ridiculous." Sherlock was still relaxed as he told John about himself, things that were so obvious he had never noticed them before. He took a breath to steady himself as his secrets began to come out. "Once, when I was young, I spent two days in the library reading psychology, trying to deduce what was wrong with me."

John jerked up, leaning away.

"What?" he snapped.

"I closed the last book, put it on the shelf and deleted the rest of the memory from my hard drive. I don't remember what happened after that."

"Sherlock…" John breathed.

"But I… I do remember…. considering the options." Sherlock hesitated, swallowing nervously. "There were so many, it was terrifying. So many ways to leave the world. But none of them were brave and smart, and how silly was it to do so little and leave early just because everyone else was a bunch of twats. So, then I went on and became, well, me."

"I didn't know…"  
"And why would you? It's not like I go around boasting to the world about how messed up I am, now do I? I've just dealt with it, that I'm not…. That I'm different."

John stared at him, taking in Sherlock's humbled figure, watching him close his eyes before falling back into the bed, looking up at the ceiling, completely speechless. It was incredible to see Sherlock this way, so open and compromised by the emotions no one had thought could reside in him. And it was scary, to think of what he had kept to himself, and was still.

"But," Sherlock started slowly "if I had to say anything about how I am feeling, what I think that I know… I would say that I am in love with you. But it's so strange; I know so bizarrely little about what I am feeling. But I believe I am; in love."

John raised his eyebrows curious as he heard uncertainty in his strong voice.

"Oh, are you now?"

"Utterly and irretrievably so." The sound of his words reverberated through the room, beautiful and haunting. A heart beat of silence fills the room as the words beauty fills the space.

It was an incredible feeling, really, to be loved by someone who had never allowed himself to feel the emotion before, who hated the notion of the intoxicating chemical. But here he was; in love. And it was John who was the one capable of making this iceman love the concept of infatuation. He was capable of making a master in almost every field become a pupil.

John then raised himself up and leaned over Sherlock, touching their lips together over and over, saying simply and silently: I love you too. Sherlock brought his hands up to cup John's neck, bringing them even closer, embracing their own love, as you can't love on your own, not really. When the other takes hold and reciprocates those feelings, it is as though the world has been dipped in solid gold. You both are trapped in a world of pure shimmering beauty and value so large, the world can't even fathom it.

So, they lost themselves again, shaping against the other like missing pieces of a puzzle, loving the fact that they were in love and together, at last, until the sun peered through the blinds and told them: 'Enough already, the world is awake now, be ready for what is to come.'

* * *

_"Wait! No, please wait…." Christian pleaded. Satine turned around to face him, a frown upon her face. "Before, when we were…when we were…when you thought I was the Duke… you said that you loved me. An-and I wondered if…if—" he stuttered._

_"If it was just… an act?" Satine filled in for him._

_"Yes!"_

_"Of course." Satine answered._

_"Oh… it just felt… real." Christian remarked._

John and Sherlock had been up for hours; midday had come and gone, passing through the flat without much notice, as they were still wrapped up in their glittering world. They had, at some point, left the bedroom, Sherlock switching his inside out night clothes for his sheet. John had considered telling him to put something on, seeing as the sheet was a great cause of distraction for him and the aspect of its potential falling was a constant thought in his mind. But he had refrained from it, and now he sat on the floor, leaning up against Sherlocks covered legs, head cradled back into his lap, cushioned by the bundles of fabric. Sherlock relaxed in his chair, half ways wrapped in his sheet. By that meaning, it had fallen off of his shoulders, exposing his thin, lean torso- chest bare and as beautiful as marble- the cloth bundled up and spilling out over the chair that he sat in, his fingers absent mindedly mussing John's hair.

Sherlock had resorted back to his usual self for a few hours after they had gotten up, his arrogance returning as he had looked out into the street, clutching the sheet about him and muttering wildly about the people who passed down below, insulting them and all about them. John had managed to pull him away and they had settled down in front of the telly, tea in hand and found that 'Moulin Rouge' was on. Sherlock had never seen the film before but by the first ten minutes he had deduced the fair lot of it. Generally, John would have commented on how 'maybe you should just watch it' but decided against it, relishing Sherlock's mind and how it worked.

They were now hunkered down in front of it, watching happily as the absurdly put together film played itself out in a manically beautiful way. As the film had progressed, Sherlock had quieted, his deductions all said and made, now just waiting for them to inevitably come true.

_"Silly of me to think that you could… fall in love with someone like me." Christian chuckled embarrassedly._

_Satine laughed weakly. "I can't fall in love with anyone."_

_"Can't fall in love? But…a life without love, that's terrible!" Christian exclaimed._

John closed his eyes and sighed contentedly, leaning back even further into Sherlock's legs.

"Enjoying yourself, are we?" Sherlock mused.

"Obviously." John replied. Sherlock laughed softly at his response.

The characters on the screen had begun to sing again, taking and giving in their little musical dance that would eventually lead to them kissing in the Elephant, falling in love and continuing to be in love in secret, skirting around, avoiding the Duke and Zidler until the fateful revelation of their affair, destroying their chances of being together until Satine falls truly ill, dying in Christians arms, where Christian eventually writes their story, The End. That was how Sherlock's mind worked, and he would have rather say it out loud and watch for John's response, but he kept it to himself, secretly loving the scene that was being played out.

And he would have continued to pay attention and be intrigued by the story if he had not heard a cab pull up outside, someone open and close the cab door, most likely a woman, judging by the way they closed it, and make their way to the front door of 221B. Out of character, he brushed the sound off and returned his attention back to the telly where Christian was following Satine down the steps.

But again, he could hear it, someone approaching. Softly, hurried footsteps made their way up to the landing until they reached it, pausing outside the door before opening it and bringing into view the room and people that it held.

"Sherlock, I just realized I must have left my…." Molly trailed off, a sick feeling clenching her gut. She had halted abruptly after only a step into the room, eyes wide and confused as she took in the scene. She clutched the strap on her bag that was slung across her work clothes, as though trying to grasp the situation, but her brain stalled out. Skittering back that step, she attempted to form words and failed, the questions refusing to leave her tongue.

Sherlock casually turned his head to face Molly, his bare body leaning back against the sofa chair, his legs wrapped in a white sheet and a now tensed John lying against them. Moulin Rouge continued to sing as Sherlock smiled at Molly.

"Ah, good, you finally remembered. I was wondering when you would. Your bracelet is on the table." He offered non-chalantly. But Molly did not move, gaping at them. John had attempted to get up but Sherlock had stopped him, resting his hand on the top of his head, shuffling his fingers as he did as though there wasn't a game changer in their midst.

"Well?" Sherlock questioned Molly. Molly appeared flustered, a disgusted, jealous feeling rearing in her gut. She was grappling for words as she stared at them. Finally, she began to think again.

_One, John should not be here; I was assured he wouldn't come back here._

_Two, does Sherlock realize what this will do to the plan, to John?_

_And three, _what the hell are they doing_?! Why is Sherlock half naked and why is John cuddled up against him? And what is that on the telly?_

Her gaze must have gone to the screen as Sherlock had caught it.

"That's a television Molly; perhaps you have seen one before. And that's Moulin Rouge playing if you must know. Some sort of musical love story." he answered her silent question, ignoring the others. Molly tried to grasp words but she was continually distracted by Sherlock's clothing, or lack thereof.

"Uh… er, maybe I should… come back… later?" She sputtered.

"No, no, no. You're here already, may as well get it while you're at it. I would, but you see, I don't think that would end too well."

John suddenly got to his feet, dusting himself off and quieted the film.

"Uh, well…. I'm going to make some more tea. Molly, want anything?" he asked awkwardly, putting down the remote. She shook her head, not looking away from Sherlock.

"O….k then." he said, slapping his hands against his sides before walking towards the kitchen and disappearing through the door.

Molly advanced on Sherlock as he gathered his sheets to cover himself, preparing to get up.

"_What the hell, Sherlock?! What are you doing?!_" she hissed.

"Well, I was just watching a movie but…" he stopped as he met her glare. It was angered and piercing, stopping his mouth. He had never seen her so furious before; he had not thought that such a mousy and polite woman was capable of such fury.

"Did you not think, Sherlock?! Did you not listen to your brother? Honestly, I thought you wanted to protect _him_! Do you not care?" she whispered venomously. He had gotten to his feet and walked over to the table, brushing past Molly. He snatched the bracelet off the table, shoving it towards her.

"Here you go then." He said stiffly. She snatched it from him but did nothing with it, closing in on him.

"And just what have you been doing, huh? Why, are you wearing that and why was John… Oh my god." She stopped what was going to be an incessant stream of questions and insults when she hit a realisation. "Are you…" She couldn't get the words out of her mouth, the thought blocking her throat. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, a small smirk playing on his lips. That was enough of an answer for her.

"I can't… believe this. I… I thought…"

"Thought what, Molly? That I was some sort of creature who wasn't capable of emotion or worthy of it? That I really was asexual? 'Oh look, there goes Sherlock and Sherlock's kid!'" he sneered. But as he did so he took in her face, seeing the signs he had never before and a thought hit him as he looked into her dilated pupils. He shifted his arms and held the sheet up though it drooped off his body marginally again. Reaching out one long arm he grabbed her wrist. She attempted to pull away but he held her there, taking her pulse. His eyes widened as he realized the abnormally high numbers. Softly dropping her arm, he backed away, shaking his head.

"Oh, Molly. I'm so sorry. I didn't…" He didn't know it then, bet he sure knew it know, what he didn't before: Molly was in love with him.

"Yes, of course you didn't, you senseless git. You don't think about those things do you? About what you do to others and you don't care about those that you use. I actually thought that if I stayed around you long enough that maybe you would begin to feel for me, but look at how wrong I was! And now you're…. I can't believe you Sherlock, really! You know what, since you must have all of this figured out, you can go on without me! I guess maybe you do care about what your lie is going to do to your little lover and that you've figured it all out so that you don't have to deal with a pathetic little girl anymore. It's not like I was a help anyways." Molly snapped, beginning to turn away, tears welling up in her eyes. But Sherlock reached out again, grasping her arm.

"Molly, stop! Please." He waited until she slowly turned around to face him again, the tears glazing over her eyes, the anger shaking her body. "You do matter, and I know, letting him back into my life, especially in… this way, its wrong but I can't stop it, I can't. I need him like I need oxygen. He's everything. He's stopping me from going insane, he's-"

"You are insane."

"Just listen, will you?!" he hissed. He spared a look to the kitchen. John was still working on the tea, obviously humming to himself, politely letting him and Molly talk.

"Molly, I love him." He confessed. This caught Molly by surprise, her features lighting up but saddening at the same time. Of all the secrets Molly had expected in the world, this was not among them.

"You…"

"Terribly so. I've been fighting it for a long time, Molly, and I don't want to anymore. But Molly…" He grabbed her back, straightening her out, as she had tried to walk away again. "I love you too. I love you like you would not believe and I don't know what I would do without you. You are the sister I have always needed in my life and I still need you in it. Please." He begged his eyes open and pleading. "Please don't make me keep begging like this, it's very out of character for me." Molly cracked a small smile, a tear cascading down her cheek.

"Well, your life's not going to be that long now, now is it? You've kind of screwed that up."

"Look, I know that what I'm doing, it's not right, its not logical, but it feels so… good. And if I have to die, I'd rather that I do it knowing what love feels like."

Molly sighed.

"I'm going to have to tell Mycroft, you know that."

Sherlock tightened his grip on her arm and she winced leaning away, but he persisted.

"You. Wont." He demanded.

"But…" she resisted. Sherlock shook his head viciously.

"You will not tell him Molly. Not for the rest of the week anyways."

"Why…" Molly started but stopped as John entered the room again, holding two cups of tea. He offered Molly a small smile which she returned sparingly before turning back to Sherlock.

"Well, text if you need me, Sherlock. John." She said, curtly, nodding towards John. She spun on her heel and marched out of the room, aggressively closing the door behind her.

"What was that about?" John asked, handing over Sherlock's tea and taking a sip of his. Sherlock didn't answer for a few moments, his fingers clutching at his tea, staring at the freshly closed door. 'Moulin Rouge' was still muttering on telly and the flat laid in an uncomfortable quiet. An uneasy sensation bloomed in Sherlock's gut, twisting it awfully as he finally began to comprehend the danger he had put himself, and worst of all, John in. His breathing heightened and his forehead creased as the future consequences of his selfish desires crashed down around him. His throat clenched and he ground his teeth together before he tried to relax it and look at John, masking his inner terror.

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing." he assured John, though he knew: he knew the truth and it was far from being nothing.


	7. Feel

**Part 7****: Feel **I apologize in advance for how late this is and any editing I missed. Have been super busy. And just so you know, I dont do smut. If it is, it can hardly be qualified as such and will be VERY fluffy.

If I could walk on water  
If I could tell you what's next  
I'd make you believe  
I'd make you forget

So come on, get higher, loosen my lips  
Faith and desire and the swing of your hips  
Just pull me down hard  
And drown me in love

~C'mon Get Higher- Matt Nathanson

_Waiting. Waiting is all I do now. It's a good thing I have endless patience. But it won't be long now. No, it won't. Soon, I'll run that bastard down. Make him feel, make him understand. It's not like he doesn't already, him and his stupid brain would have figured that out ages ago, but there is no way that he has ever felt the burning pain of loss, he gets what he wants. And I could have, so easily, collected his heart, his inferior black heart, if I hadn't known our plan had gone astray. If I hadn't…_

Sebastian Moran sat in a flat, one of dark and modern qualities, on a black leather sofa, looking blankly at the chair in which his lover used to sit, his thoughts wandering. It had been a month now since Jim Moriarty had occupied that chair. The night before they had sat smoothing over the details of their seemingly flawless plan, lost in kisses and schemes. Jim still had on that t-shirt and jeans he had on after leaving that worthless reporter's flat and made his way back to their home. They had spent days apart, their plan laying itself out without a hitch. It had been difficult, those few days, being absent of the man whom they both desired: each other. But it would all have been worth it, soon enough. They would no longer be apart, perhaps ever again, once Sherlock Holmes had been subsequently cut out of the equation.

But no, something went wrong, and Sebastian would never know why his finger pulled that trigger. It had to be Jim, because they had both known that Sherlock would never have the guts to pull the trigger and deliver death. He had heard that gun go as he settled himself on those stairs, positioned himself on that ledge while that sound cleaved his mind in two, sending every thought in his brain scrambling. He clamped down on his urge to run to the rooftop, but no, he had to stay there, had to; for Jim. He had to deliver the fatal blow to John, and in turn, Sherlock, as the good doctor was perhaps the one thing Sherlock had ever truly cared for, besides the other two worthless people with guns pointed at their heads. D.I. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Moran couldn't understand how Sherlock could feel for those two, but nonetheless, they were part of the plan.

So he waited, every part of him squirming to go and find where that bullet had found its home. He watched what would have been a heart breaking scenario take place, between Watson and Holmes, moments before the detective jumped and the doctor screamed his name. Perhaps Sebastian would have waited and revelled in the victory of the plan, but he could not. Within seconds he had packed away his rifle and was bounding down the stairs, into the bleak, grey and depressing day. He was across the street, pushing past people and rushing into the hospital, using his skills at deception to make his way to the hospital stairwell. As soon as the door shut behind him he was running at top speed, up the stairs, ignoring the burn in his legs. Thoughts rushed through his head as he pressed his way to the top. Jim had not messaged him, as was promised, when the plan was commenced, and this only increased Moran's out of character, blatant and frenzied worrying. The door to the roof. Sebastian shoved it open, clambering out onto the roof, turned right and instantly froze. Blood, oh, there was so much blood. Sebastian was a highly trained killer, and blood was no new sight to him. Truthfully, it was a welcome one, for it meant he was successful, which he always was. But this, this was different. This was the blood of Jim Moriarty that painted the buildings roof, spreading onto the pavement, leaking out of his head.

Dropping his bag, clattering on the floor, he strode over to his lovers body, his heart in his throat. He was now there, standing above the man that lay on the ground, the whispers of hope that he lived were swept away as feebly as a branch being swept down stream as he looked into the dead mans blank eyes. A sob escaped Moran's lips as he fell to his knees, blood kissing his trousers, his hand reaching out to grasp the cold, hard hand that he had held only mere hours ago. An indescribable pain tore through him as the realization hit him in full time, so he turned his head to the sky, anger hissing through his lips. His only wish burned through him with great desire: that he could hold Jim again and feel his warmth and hear his voice, but he knew that would not happen. Oblivious to the tears that cascaded down his faces and blurred his sight; he stiffly got to his feet in a daze and walked to the ledge. He hadn't planned on doing anything; just simply look down on where his lover had made Sherlock fall. But nonetheless, dangerous thoughts coursed through his mind. It wasn't until he walked to the back ledge and looked over it that he realized something. That it was Sherlock walking out of the back of the hospital, and before Sebastian could react, got into a waiting black car, zipping away. Anger pumped through Moran's veins as he watched the car disappear around a corner.

That useless excuse of a man lived. Somehow, he had faked his death. He lived while Jim was lying on the cold hard ground, dead. In some sick turn of events, their positions had switched. A fury gripped his gut as the events came colliding down in horrible realization.

Revenge. That was the word that ran through his mind, taking over the pain and emptiness. He could scream, he could kick, yell, punch, kill. But no, he couldn't. No, out of all the things he could do, none of those things were the ones suitable for situation. No, the demolition of a man, now that's what was made for this.

Jim had promised Sherlock that he would burn the heart out of him. As Sebastian turned towards the stairwell- stopping at his lover, kissing his forehead, tears marking his skin, and closing the dead mans eyes- he knew what he had to do. He would burn Sherlock Holmes; burn him to the ground and straight into hell. And he knew just how to go about it. But it would take time, he would have to wait.

_It's a good thing I have endless patience._

* * *

"Mmm…" John stretched lazily as he woke up, the sheets slipping off his arms. He kept his eyes closed, savouring the feeling of early morning. He moaned into his pillow before shifting onto his side, opening his eyes to look at Sherlock, bliss painting his features. Except Sherlock wasn't there. His space on the bed was vacant, the mattress and sheets still holding the shape of the man's long, slender frame. John rolled his eyes as he should have known that Sherlock was not a stay in bed kind of person. And he wouldn't have it any other way.

John smiled briefly and rubbed sleep from his eyes before leaning over and laying face down in Sherlock's pillow. The sensation was delicious, as the fabric still held his scent: John's favourite smell in the universe and his personal safe house. He inhaled several times, contemplating just staying there, laying in bed with an imprint of Sherlock. But eventually, his desire for the real thing motivated him and he finally pulled away, snatching the covers off of his body. He sat on the edge of the bed, stretching towards the ceiling before bringing his hands down and resting them on his neck and sliding down to massage the knots from his bare shoulders. He took his time, taking in the room. It was dark as the blinds were closed, leaving a blue tinge to the space. He smiled wearily as he saw his usually clean room was a mess, clothes strewn about the place, his shirt was thrown across his dresser and his trousers on the floor, shoes in the open doorway. Slowly, he got up from the bed and made his way across the small room and yanked open the drawers, grabbing a fresh pair of trousers, pulling them over his pants and put on an old jumper. He straightened the room up, making his bed and throwing the discarded clothes in the laundry basket before he walked from the room, running his hands through his already mussed up hair.

"Morning Sherlock." He said sleepily as he entered the main room of the flat. Sherlock was lying on the couch in his usual position, hands steepled under his chin. He was wearing an odd t shirt John had never seen and night trousers. He did not move as John entered, except for his eyes, which followed him across the room, the ice blue colour piercing John as they locked eyes. Breathing in suddenly, Sherlock turned his head fully towards the smaller man.

"Have a good night?" he asked. His eyes twinkled mischievously, making John blush a pink shade and look away, a grin spreading across his lips.  
"Uh, I don't know. Maybe." He replied sarcastically, sparing a glance at Sherlock. He still was there on the couch, but now he was looking up at John, a smirk on his perfectly shaped lips. Johns gut clenched as he took in Sherlock and refrained from joining the detective on the couch.  
"Mine was rather satisfactory, I must say." Sherlock said happily, returning to his usual stance, staring up at the ceiling. John chuckled minutely before turning towards the kitchen.

"Do you want anything? Food wise I mean." John asked.

"Just tea for me, love." Sherlock muttered. John stopped abruptly and turned around to look at the man on the couch.

"Sorry. I missed that." John said, startled, even though he had heard it perfectly well. Sherlock lifted his chin up and spoke clearly, pronouncing each word.

"Just tea for me, John." John smiled and shook his head, knowing he had changed his words.

"Sure, whatever."

The night before; oh the night before. Well, John felt like that was a story all on its own. As he walked to the kitchen and grabbed the kettle, he played it back over in his mind.

Really, nothing substantial had happened, physically. But truly, a new person had been opened, a new file. John liked to think that they had melded together last night. They had been sitting around as usual, reading. They did much of this, as their preferred activities of experimenting and going to Bart's were out of the question, and they had kept their contact to the minimum, just general being near to one another. But last night, something shifted.

* * *

Sherlock had given off a deep and exasperated sigh, breaking the silence, and snapped his book shut, slamming it down on the floor. He fidgeted in his chair and groaned, muttering to himself silently. John looked up and closed his own book, hearing the pages meet softly. He gave a sympathetic smile as he looked at Sherlock, agitated and perfectly bored.

"I know." He stated, responding to Sherlock's silent outburst.

"I'm sick of my mind palace John! Jesus, I've gone through it six times now. Its enough that I know everything I have up there, but now I could recite it all to you!" he growled

John smirked at this; Sherlock's cussing making him laugh a bit.

"Care to give an example?" he teased. He should have known better. Sherlock opened his mouth again, parting those perfect lips and began to elaborate, as far as John could tell, alphabetically. He let Sherlock talk for a few moments until… an idea.

"How bored are you?" he quipped. This stopped Sherlock in his tracks.

"You really have to ask?" Sherlock retorted.

"Well, you see, I just got an idea." John began as he got up from his chair.

"Oh really? What kind of idea would make its home in that mind of yours?"

"A boredom buster of sorts, entertainment."

"Sounds tedious." Sherlock cut in, rolling his head back, leaving his porcelain neck exposed, and closed his eyes.

"Just humour me." John snapped softly, quietly approaching the man. For some reason, Sherlock had put on that damned purple shirt with the top two buttons open exposing a few inches of pale skin under his collar bones, and it drew John closer. "Perhaps," he said, nearing Sherlock, leaning in during the final few steps. "You'll like this idea." And with that, he was right up to Sherlock, the man still oblivious, his head tilted far back, eyes closed. He probably knew of John's proximity but showed no signs of discomfort. So John tested him. He leaned all the way forward and pressed his lips to Sherlock's collarbone. He heard Sherlock draw in a sharp breath and felt his body snap to attention under his touch.

"John…" he started, for once unable to finish. John pulled back and looked him the eyes, raising an eyebrow in amusement at Sherlock's expression: he was absolutely bewildered, stunned and intrigued.

"Are you bored now?" John pressed, leaning in again, kissing the space under Sherlock's right ear, lingering. He could hear Sherlock bring in a stuttering breath and suddenly the man's long fingered hand was clasped around John's neck.

"No." he breathed. They both pushed away and stared hungrily into the others eyes for several moments, silently deciding what they were doing, their breathing a bit heavier in anticipation. They stayed there until Sherlock ran his tongue along his bottom lip. And then, with no notice, they launched at each other, lips locking, Johns hands in Sherlock's curly hair, Sherlock grabbing the doctors waist, clutching him closer. Their lips moved together in a perfect frenzy, tasting each other like they never had before, experiencing one another in different ways. Sherlock slipped his tongue between John's lips, testing his limits: for then, there was none. Sherlock slipped a hand up under John's jumper, resting on the space above his hip bone. John shuddered happily at the contact and took Sherlock's lower lip between his teeth, holding it there tauntingly. Sherlock ran his tongue over John's upper lip, causing the doctor to gasp and reconnect the kiss. John's hands found the buttons on Sherlock's shirt and began undoing them until he had the expanse of Sherlock's chest open to the air. Quickly, he situated himself on Sherlock's lap, straddling his legs, closer. He then placed his one free hand- as the other was still clutching Sherlock's hair, bringing them closer- and put it over Sherlock's heart, feeling it beat, pump blood through his veins, harder and faster than was normal. Then, John pulled his face away though keeping his hands in place, and looked into Sherlock's eyes which were almost completely black, rimmed with a thin line of ice blue. Laughing, John bent down and pressed his lips softly on Sherlock's forehead, then nose, and finally his chin. At last, he rested his cheek on his chest, feeling the vibrations and proof that this man had a heart, shaking his very soul. He could feel Sherlock bend over as well, pressing his face against the top of Johns head, kissing it and breathing in deeply.

"Mmm, John... You're better than cocaine." Sherlock murmured.

"And you would know, wouldn't you?" Sherlock chuckled, the motion shaking Johns head, making his eyes flutter closed.

"Well, I definitely won't be needing it ever again." Sherlock stated into John's hair, his breath warm on his skull. John lowered the hand that had still been clutched in Sherlock's hair and slid in down to grasp his neck, giving it a small squeeze. He reluctantly lifted his head off of the detective's bare chest and rocked back a bit, his feet angled back and linking at the ankles with Sherlock's, looking the man in his eyes.

"And why would that be?" he asked cheekily.

"Because I can't imagine anything more potent than you. You intoxicate me and make my brain a big wibbly wobbly mess and, for once, I can't hear a thousand thoughts. Cocaine never spared me from myself before. It's amazing."

John grinned and angled forwards, keeping his hands where they were on Sherlock's chest and neck and relished the glorious feel of skin on skin; smooth, naked contact, vulnerable. He could feel the contentedness radiating off Sherlock and his heart begin to slow back to its regular beats per minute under John's hand. Well, that would have to change. He leaned in and pressed his forehead to Sherlock's and instantly felt his heart start up again. Their closeness would have seemed odd in a time long past but now… it just felt right. So John ventured, seeing what the limits would be.

"I'd like to test that theory." he said slowly. Silently he pressed his lips to Sherlock's again, kissing him delicately and paused, pulling away an inch, listening to Sherlock's heart race, eyes closed. He could sense Sherlock smirk and he had a moment to wonder why when Sherlock stuck out his tongue and slowly, and most distractingly, ran it along the curves of John's lips, sending every nerve in John's body tingling and bursting as though he had been struck by lightning. But truly, he had been, for Sherlock's every touch was simply and intricately electric. John sat there, slumping forwards towards Sherlock as he sat on his lap, taking in as much as he could of this new found contact. But he didn't have the time he wished, for Sherlock suddenly pushed back, leaning away, leaving John sitting there, open and bewildered, blinking. Silence filled the few inches between them before John cocked his head and, like a gun shot, they began their frenzied perfection all over again, clutching the other as close as was humanly possible, leaving no space for air between them, their lips moving against the other as if they had been made for just that purpose and that purpose alone. John managed to finish unbuttoning the purple shirt and let it hang open as Sherlock subtly ran his hands down from Johns shoulders, sliding them down across his back over the fabric, feeling the bumps and waves and where it hugged Johns frame, feeling John shudder under his touch, and glided his hands across his hips, bringing them to a rest on Johns jean covered thighs, shuffling his fingers as he did so. Johns gut clenched, his body ceasing function at this, his heart in his throat.

All at once, Sherlock stood up, hooking his arms up under John's legs and bringing them around his slim waist where John instantly clamped them around his body, making sure their lips never parting, make for a small squeak as John felt Sherlock's lap disappear out from under him. They stood there a few seconds and Sherlock smiled against Johns lips, clutching him around his body. He moved leisurely towards the bedroom, their lips never parting and eyes never opening, and there was no need to, for Sherlock had the place mapped to the very last millimetre. They arrived at John's room, the door cracked open, so Sherlock simply swung his hip out, letting Johns leg hit the door, making it fall open. They proceeded to back into the room and John worked the purple shirt off Sherlock's shoulders so that it would fall off when he put the doctor down.

John had not been paying much attention to anything except the beauty of feeling Sherlock all around him, so it was very much a surprise when Sherlock's arms disappeared out from under his legs, their faces drew apart and he was falling towards the ground. Thankfully, Sherlock had backed him up onto the bed, so mattress groaned under the sudden weight. He let out a grunt as he hit it, but being of quick reflexes, he was not stalled for long and was soon rearranging himself into a sitting position. As predicted, the shirt fell silently off Sherlock's body, puddling around his feet to reveal his upper body, an expanse of lean, pale torso. Lithely, he stepped forward and crouched onto the bed, placing his hands on either side of John's body and rested a knee on the bed, bringing them ever so closer, stopping just inches before they would meet again.

"Are you bored right now, Dr. Watson?" he breathed in John's ear.

"Oh God no."

Sherlock smiled again, his elation so evident in his every move that it painted the air a brilliant and invisible shade. He gently cradled Johns head in his hands, pressing his lips to the doctors slowly and passionately, over and over. John's hands moved off of the bed, grasping at Sherlock's bare back, his fingers tracing the map of his back. It made him hunger to do the same to the rest of Sherlock's body. At last, the detective backed away and looked the smaller man dead in his eyes.

"And to thin k we could have been doing this the whole time." He murmured regretfully. John chuckled and straightened up, moving forward the get closer to Sherlock again, bringing them just as close as they had been before, but not quite.

"What a pity." he said on Sherlock's curvy lips "But I guess we should get started again, make up for lost time, otherwise you might get bored again, and just how terrible would that be?"

"I could never be bored with you." Sherlock whispered deliciously. Suddenly, John pulled away, leaving Sherlock feeling blank and somewhat exposed, and seemed to scan the room.

"You mean me?" he teased, pretending to be confused. Sherlock growled and advanced even closer on John.

"Of course I mean you, you idiot. Now take off that jumper, I want to see you." As he said that he moved his hand further up under John's jumper so that it now rested on his ribcage, and the electrifying shivers spread through his body again like a tidal wave.

"Will you help me then?" John gasped.

"Why of course."  
He softly tugged the shirt off of Johns body, the smaller man raising his arms to let it slide over his head, revealing a beautiful torso- if not a bit skinny- that had obviously not fallen out of disuse after his time Afghanistan. And Sherlock revelled in it.

"You are… amazing." Sherlock breathed.

"Now that's not fair, I use that word to describe you." John protested weakly.

"If you had been listening, you would know that you are a part of me, and in turn, you have been calling yourself amazing. This should not be a surprise."

"Well, I'm an idiot, aren't I?" John mocked.

"Why yes you are." He growled, leaning in.

The embraced each other again, loosing themselves in each other for the hundredth time, as it was such and easy thing to do. Eventually the found themselves lying in bed, their trousers discarded, tracing each other, learning the opposite man in ways they had never dreamed of. By the end of the night, they had memorized perhaps every line and scar they bore on their skin, a token of the times long past that still haunted them. But right then, they didn't seem to matter so much any more, because it wasn't the times long past anymore, it was right then and there, the future with every passing second, and they didn't live in the past anymore. No, they lived there, with each other, in the moment.

"I feel like we should talk." John muttered at some point in the night. Sherlock breathed deeply and repositioned himself to face John better, looking at him through the dark of the room.

"I don't think words would say enough." There were no more words after that, their bodies speaking through silence, and the silence spoke for them; spoke speeches and ballads so long and lovely that it would take hundreds of pieces of paper to hold the words. And they never said a thing, because there was no need to.


	8. Hold On

**Hold On**

**A Johnlock Fanfiction by McColSHLoki/ M.D. Iles ( believeinsherlock_cumberbatch on Instagram) Please give all credit to such and now that I LOVE YOU TO PIECES FOR READING THIS! KEEP IT UP **

**WARNING: This Chapter (as well as the next) is made up around the idea of drugs and family abuse. Please proceed with caution. And be aware that I, myself, have never taken drugs. This is all purely Google based and I 'apologize' for any drug inaccuracies.**

_All my days are spent__  
__All my cards are dealt__  
__Oh the desolation grows__  
__Every inch revealed__  
__As my heart is pierced__  
__Oh my soul is now exposed__In the ocean deep__  
__In the canyons steep__  
__Walls of granite here I stand__  
__All my desperate calls__  
__Echo off the walls__  
__Back and forth__  
__Then back again__To believe I walk alone__  
__Is a lie that I've been told__  
_-Fort Atlantic ~Let Your Heart Hold Fast

_I told him I'd never need it again, and I wasn't lying, but still…_

Sherlock sat on his bed, blinds closed, chest of drawers open, the contents strewn and a box opened beside him on the bed, needles and syringes filled with fluids and packets of white powder. They had been neatly packed away in the clear Tupperware and shoved into the back of the drawer, hidden in a false bottom he had constructed especially for this: his stash of drugs.

He hadn't touched it in ages, his last slip up being when John had been in Dublin. Since then, he had ditched most of his supplies until he had only his heroin left. He had tried to get rid of it. Truly, he had, for his last dose had been near fatal. If it had not been for Mycroft's absurd security, then Sherlock would have remained in the bathroom, face down in his own vomit until his life flickered out like the light above. He knew it had been torture for Mycroft to find him that way, and with the sliver of respect that he had for his brother he vowed never to touch it again, throw it away. He had, in a sense, done that, but it wasn't enough, for all he had to do was empty the drawer and lift the bottom.

Mycroft nor John knew anything of the false bottom, so there was no way for them to find it. And so they hadn't when they tore their way through the flat after Irene's 'death', looking for the thing that Mycroft feared for reasons he would not tell John. John had his suspicions, his silent thoughts about Sherlock's past, but he had not considered his kiss with death, either because the thought had not crossed his mind or because they were too awful to think. Either way, he didn't know the truth.

And here Sherlock sat, the questions and regrets already formed in his mind, the guilt and wretched feeling of betraying more than one man- no, two, for he would be betraying John, Mycroft and himself- and clearly knowledgeable of the hurt he would cause. And yet he was there, his hand on a needle, the temptation so grand. He could hardly remember what had possessed him to take his supply out.

He vaguely remembered him telling John, so close, that he would never need cocaine again, drugs in general, because nothing could be more intoxicating than him. But as soon as the words had left his mouth, a strong, tingling yearning filled him. He had tried to brush it off, but as he sat there, the feeling pumping through him, he was filled with the longing for the drug. He had sat down, contemplating the sensation and eventually he found himself with the wanting of a needle pricking his skin, the feeling of liquid filling his muscles, the heightened, beautiful rush, absence of anything except himself. And the harder he thought, he remembered times when he would bring the needle to his skin or powder through the tube and melt away, to forget the nights he feared would haunt him forever. But he had deleted the reasons as to why he succumbed to the needle from his hard drive, content to be left with just the memory of the golden, freeing warmth of the drug. And so he was overcome with the ravenous need for the temporary peace that the needle brought.

In a few rooms over he could hear the bathroom door shut and the tap squeak, releasing water for Johns shower. He would be gone for a while, unaware of the dangerous nature of Sherlock's thoughts.

Without waiting, Sherlock tugged up his sleeve, exposing his arm, and wrapped a tourniquet above his elbow. Quickly, he prepared the needle before settling it in the crrok of his arm, taking a breath and pressing it into the skin, breaking it and pressing it into the skin, the familiar feeling of metal embedding itself into his skin and then the stretching, pinching liquid filled his body. Within seconds, a warm, cradling sensation took over, relieving him, taking him away from everything, pumping through his veins and brain, making him smile, his cells beaming. Yet, despite its numbing qualities, he was still aware of the chemicals that pumped through him, the route it took, the areas of the brain that it affected and how it was made. Something was different, off. Immediately, Sherlock happily began deducing it, even in his drugged state

The heroin, first of all, is more pure, stronger. I measured to my body weight, though the effects will be minimal it will be nonetheless overpowering. But no, that's not all, there's something else. Something that shouldn't have been there. Can't quite pin point it…

Dazedly he fell back into the bed, the purity of the heroin finally kicking in. The euphoria was brighter and stronger, the chemical burning through him joyfully, shaking, consuming. It wrapped him in a warm golden grasp, the soft cushion of the bed making the envelope of the drug even more holding, leaving an almost painful bliss radiating through him.

He laid there for perhaps ages, the feeling of heroin and something else in his body leaving a smile on his face. Slowly, he began to be able to figure out what the other drug in his body was, defining the various chemicals, formulas starting to dance merrily in his brain. Finally, at last, as he heard John shut off the water and step out of the shower, the combination flitting into vision, the companion to the heroin, as a tight nausea gripped him.

C20H25N3O

He feebly held the nausea down, keeping it under as he heard John open the bathroom door, pat his way down the hall and up to his room, closing the door shut behind him. But before Sherlock can tag a name to the accompanying drug, the sickness grips him in full time and he found himself striding towards the room John has just left, slamming the door shut before he fell to his knees and gripping the toilet, retching, loosing what little food he had consumed that morning to the bowl. Catching his breath, panting heavily and trying to keep the pushing urge to vomit again at bay, he could hear John, now in the kitchen, stop.

He had been coming back down the stairs, hair still wet, the steps creaking under his weight when he stopped, hearing something he couldn't quite place… But as he stood there, it made the connection in his mind, and quickly made his way to the origin of the sound.

He knew he would be coming: John. He had heard the man stop and listen. So now, knowing that John would be coming to see what was wrong, he fought even harder to keep the nausea down, but it was ever present, tugging at the back of his throat, masking the golden warmth. At last, he could not help it any longer and the convulsions gripped him, racking his whole body, his knuckles white as he clawed the edges of the bowl.

Outside the door, John stopped, bringing his ear to the door, his forehead creased with worry.

"Sherlock?" he called out tentatively.

Sherlock gasped and fell backwards, catching himself with his hands and lowered him into a sitting position, the nausea ebbing away. As he brought his hand out to push the lever, just missing it, he could hear John place his own hand on the door knob.

"I'm coming in." he said, voice hard.

Sherlock began to panic under the returning euphoria.

"No! Please, don't! Don't come in John!" He said it moments too late though, for one of the men that he had betrayed opened the door and stood there staring at him, eyes wide and mouth open.

"Sherlock." he murmured.

In mere steps he came to his knees beside him, as Sherlock's hand finally found the lever, flushing away his breakfast.

"Oh, Sherlock are you..?" John began, stopping when their eyes met and he took in their dilated state. "Oh, what have you done?"

His response stabbed Sherlock worse than any needle, because he wasn't made or angry as he should be. No, he was disappointed. He had known and acknowledged this as a consequence before he had injected the drug, but he had never imagined the legitimate pain it caused, the way his eyes showed how bitterly disappointed he was.

"John, I'm… I'm sorry. I didn't… think. I just." His speech was troubled and he was clutching onto consciousness, sickeningly aware of how pure the heroin was and just how badly the two drugs were agreeing.

C20H25N3O

And just then, the name of the combination appeared into his mind, a freezing fear snagging him.

LSD

"I'm so sorry." he whispered in a pained voice. The heroin was rocking him to sleep, the golden embrace shushing him.

John moved closer to him and grabbed Sherlock, who had been teetering in his sitting position, his hands on the floor hardly keeping him up. He brought him up into his lap where he curled up against him like a small child, cradling him and clutching him to his chest.

"Sherlock, c'mon, stay with me. Talk to me. What was it?" he pressed, shaking him lightly. Sherlock swallowed and breathed in John, his cheek pressed up against his jumper, his scent beautiful and just as intoxicating as the drugs pumping through him. Silently, he cursed himself for caving into his selfish desires. Blinking, he parted his lips to speak, his tongue heavy.

"Heroin. I had it in a false drawer in my wardrobe. Had it made after my… overdose. Mycroft had found me, you were away. I threw away the rest of my supply, but I kept this.

"I promised him. I said I threw it away, all of it. But I… I didn't. Obviously. I'm not sure why I… I… Oh John, I'm so sorry. I lied. To you, Mycroft." Blackness was creeping into his vision, and behind it laid memories so far gone and deleted, so vicious and terrifying, that he couldn't even be sure that they were his memories, but he knew they were. He knew because in the darkness of the approaching unconsciousness was the face of his father, a face he had tried his hardest to forget.

"Please. Don't." he whimpered, barely audible. His eyes began to slide shut, his breathing slow, panic rising in his chest.

"Sherlock. Sherlock! Stay with me. You have to do this. Please!" John begged, shifting Sherlock off of him so he could properly shake him. It jerked Sherlock out of the frightened daze slightly. He numbly wet his lips and tried to talk again, his voice cracking as he did so. As he did, John worked his phone out of his pocket, opening his contacts.

"So much more than I thought… supposed to be. So pure and…" he mumbled. It wouldn't be long before he couldn't keep fighting for consciousness. He knew that John would think it was an overdose, but he couldn't make himself say what it was mixed with, the images the drug brought on already making him sick to his stomach. They were of times long past that made scars so deep, that despite how he thought he had forgotten them, deleted from his hard drive; they resurfaced with the drug, bringing about his original reasons for succumbing to drugs. So he forced his lips apart again and lifted his face to look at John again, fear in his eyes, heart beating hard. He tried to hide it, so he poured as much emotion as he could muster, hiding the fear from his voice as well.

"You know, don't you?" he whispered, voice shaking despite his efforts.

Johns face was painted with worry and countless emotions, but now confusion joined in.

"Know what?" he asked in a tough tone.

The world was edging away dimming. He shook and felt himself droop forward, John catching him and lowering him towards his chest, forehead leaning up against him.

"That I love you, John Watson." He said before he fell into a golden wave of heroin and the image of his father striding towards him, drink on his breath and a belt in his hand.

* * *

"Please tell me you're coming Mycroft." John growled into his mobile, an unconscious but still perfectly alive Sherlock in his lap.

"Why, dare I ask, and where? I never thought you would want to see me again after Sherlock's… death." Mycroft said silkily.

"Oh, cut the act Mycroft. I know he's alive, for the time being anyway. And honestly, I wouldn't be talking to you if it wasn't absolutely necessary so get your ass over here."

"So I see he told you then." He sighed heavily into the phone. "You didn't answer me though, John. Where am I supposed to be? Surely not Baker Street, though I did notice you checked out of your hotel."

"Please. Surely you have been checking the surveillance you had stuck up in the flat." John shot back, mocking him. "Anyways, I need you over here now. I think Sherlock's overdosed." John spoke strongly in spite of the pain he was going through, his throat tightening as he looked down on Sherlock, his head resting loosely on his own shoulder, body limp and motionless.

"I'm sorry?" Mycroft asked. _Good, _John thought,_ I have his attention._

"Your brother, Mycroft! Heroin! Apparently he didn't throw it all away. This has happened before hasn't it? He said-"

"Is he conscious?" My croft demanded, urgent and serious now.

"No, but Mycroft-" he didn't get to finish as the line went dead.

"Goddammit." he muttered, resisting the urge to throw the phone against the wall.

Instead, he adjusted his position to put the phone back in his pocket, still clutching Sherlock. Finally, phone in pocket, he claimed a new sitting position and readjusted Sherlock in his arms, checking his pulse and breath for the hundredth time. Neither was as strong as he would like, but they would have to do.

_Breathe John, in and out. It's going to be fine. All fine._

Was it? As John sat there listening to Sherlock's weakened heartbeat and slowed breathing, stuck in the cramped room, leaning up against the old wall with the stench of vomit in the air, he beat down the panic as best as he could, but it clawed at his heart and he couldn't take it anymore. Why?! Was he not enough? Did Sherlock not love him? No, he had told him, with his last breath, that he loved him, and that counted for something, especially coming from Sherlock. If he were to… die… now, his last words would be his name, and that spoke a universe. And though it was a comfort, the thought did not relieve the death grip his heart was in. He wished he knew what in the world had possessed him to stab himself with that needle. Was his life that bad, that he felt the need to slip away from it?

A dozen questions shouted in his mind, but none went answered. Johns only wish as that he could relax and talk to the man who lay in his arms, the man who made him beyond happy, and the man who wasn't satisfied by him. He wished he could take the time to savour the moment with him, life. Because he didn't know what he would do if he died. Because this time, there would be no 'maybe'. He would be gone; heart stopped, blood gone cold: dead. There would be no more kisses, none stolen or shared. And like that, John would loose all purpose, his reality slip into his nightmares and slowly, painfully, he would wait for the time in which death would come to him and claim him as well.

It was true that John had never truly believed that Sherlock had died. Could never accept what people told him, because he knew Sherlock, and with Sherlock, the battle field where dreams were shot through and love realized and miracles are born was open, and he knew that Sherlock was just as capable at making these things happen as was the ground that had drank so much blood.

And if he were to die now, they both would die; their survival impossible. They would cease to exist. Suddenly, John realized that he was crying, his fat, wet tears falling into Sherlock's dark, thick curls. He choked on them, his throat tight and pained and an odd, strangled sound escaped his lips as he acknowledged the state of the situation. Trying to regain his composure, he bowed his head, pressing his lips to the wet, thick curls, breathing in the unconscious man, taking deep breaths. Finally, as his shaking subsided, Sherlock still relaxed and limp in his arms, cradled against him like a child, he spoke.

"Don't you dare leave me you idiot. Don't even _think_ about it." he choked.

"A bit attached are we?" a voice came by the door. Johns head whipped around to look up at the man who the voice belonged to.

"Excuse you?" John asked Mycroft, venom in his voice. Mycroft shook his head, ignoring John's annoyance.

"Come on. We need to get into the car and to the hospital. Are his vitals still functioning?"

"You think that I haven't been checking every second? You wound me, Mycroft. And besides, how will that work? He's supposed to be dead, remember? I don't think people will take too kindly to a dead man on the cusp of life in their hospital." John said curtly, subconsciously rubbing Sherlock's neck.

"Well, he will be dead if we don't hurry. I thought you would know these things, seeing as you are a doctor and all. And I believe you are forgetting who you are talking to John."

"Honest to God Mycroft, I would end you if I didn't need you. But right now I do, so I guess it's your lucky day."

"Thank you." Mycroft replied amusedly, turning away to walk out the door before he turned back to look down on John again. "can you carry him?"

"Of course." John responded with hesitation. Mycroft nodded before leaving, heading downstairs.

Truthfully, John probably couldn't carry a full grown man after his break from Afghanistan, the effort grown foreign in its absence. But he didn't take any of that in to consideration. This was Sherlock and he needed him, and there was no way in Hell that John wouldn't do everything for this man. Quickly he stood up, untangling himself gently from Sherlock, stretching momentarily before swooping down again, placing his hands under his slack body, adjusting before lifting and straightening up, pressured under the weight despite how little Sherlock weighed. Without pausing for thought, he was moving his feet, passing through the flat and shuffling down the stairs as fast as was humanly possible for him. When he met the front door though, he stopped. How the Hell was this going to work? He surely wasn't about to put Sherlock down but he needed to get him through the door. As if on cue, Mycroft opened the door, ushering him out the door to the waiting car, door already open. He awkwardly leaned down, positing himself into the back seat, Sherlock still in his arms, as Mycroft closed the doors behind them. Soon, they were making their way down the street and towards the hospital. John's workplace, judging by the route they were taking. But he didn't pay attention to that, or any of it for a matter of fact. Instead, he embraced Sherlock, the mans head lolling with the movement of the care, resting on Johns arm, fiddling with his damp curls, stroking his neck and fighting back the choking fear that tried to overpower him. Clenching his jaw he leaned his head back, closing his eyes as he tried to remind himself to breathe, though the constriction of his throat made it difficult. The constant rumbling of the car did indeed help, but it wasn't near enough to distract him from the lack of consciousness of the man he loved. For the rest of the trip he attempted a forced calm, but truly, his every passing moment came a new emotion, strong and crushing, consisting of worry, sickness, grief, fear, and with great difficulty recognizing this emotion, anger. Great burning anger. Fortunately, when he came across this feeling, he didn't have much time to let it fester, for they had arrived at the back of the hospital. John opened his eyes and leaned forward, looking up at the familiar building, glad they had not chosen Bart's. But as he stared up at the place, another thought, one that was frequenting his mind, made another appearance. _How the Hell was this going to work?_ As he mulled over this question, he could absently hear Mycroft signal the driver to get out and wait for them at the door, as he had cleared the wing. Then he could hear, as the driver left the vehicle, Mycroft unbuckle and turn around partly in his seat.

"John." he started.

"Mmm?" he responded before turning his head to face Mycroft, glaring at him.

"You're going to have to play Doctor."

* * *

**I apologize in advance for any medical inaccuracies.**

They had gotten Sherlock into the hospital with ease, the small wing cleared as had been previously stated, and a room already empty and waiting. Briefly, John felt his heart ease up towards Mycroft. Sometimes, it wasn't so bad having him around; things tended to be much more efficient. Then again, if it hadn't been for him, they probably wouldn't be in this situation to start with.

He quickly entered the clean room, settling Sherlock on the hard bed, his arms loose and dangling, head rolling about as Mycroft clicked the door shut behind them, waiting at the door, not advancing further into the room.

Immediately, ignoring the man standing in the room with him, he began setting Sherlock, up, connecting him to the heart monitor and IV, checking vitals and the standard basic procedure for overdose suspects. Finally, Sherlock's heart beat was present in the room, the weak beeping announcing his teetering state. He did a double check of everything, taking his blood before turning to Mycroft, shoving it towards him before turning back to check over Sherlock again. Quickly and silently, Mycroft passed it off to the driver, telling him to find a professional and have it examined as a top priority. He returned within the minute, resuming his spot at the door. Finally, with nothing left to do but wait for the blood results and monitor his love, he turned around to face the man standing at the door.

"Why?" he demanded, eyes burning.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, tilting his head subtly.

"Why what?"

"Oh, don't play dumb with me, Mycroft. You know what I'm talking about." He paused, eyes narrowing. 'Why does he have to be 'dead'? You're in on it, obviously. So is Molly. So tell me. Now."

Any hint of a smile was wiped off of Mycroft's face. He sighed exasperatedly, scrunching up his face and rubbing the bridge of his nose before answering.

"I can't tell you John. I'm not the one to tell you that. Besides," he said, a smirk returning to his face quietly "it's not as though you two are terribly _close_."

With that, Mycroft turned around, hand on the door.

"Where are you going?!" John snapped, enraged.

Sighing again, he looked back at John.

"I have a country to run, John." he said simply.

"What? He's your _brother_ for God sake, Mycroft! Do you not care?!" he roared.

It was clear that Mycroft was trying to keep a smirk off of his face, and he was doing a fair job, but it was still present in the tiny whisper.

"John," he started, choosing his words precisely "there are many things that need tending to, dealing with, which are of high importance. And, to be frank, Sherlock is no that important."

A colourful rage bloomed in Johns gut and he found himself leaving Sherlock's bedside, striding towards Mycroft furiously. Without warning from either him or his brain, his fist was flying through the air, arcing, and making its mark on Mycroft's jaw.

"HE IS TO ME!" John shouted, shaking with the strength of a soldier at war.

To be honest, John had held back quite a bit, but it was clear that the force he put behind it was still substantial. Mycroft had stood his ground, though obviously hurting from the blow. Perhaps John would have continued his rage, cursing Mycroft out if it had not been for the fact that Mycroft had started to chuckle.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" John growled.

Mycroft only shook his head, a smile on his face, though a manicured hand tenderly rubbed his assaulted jaw.

"I had to make sure."

"I'm sorry?" John asked, taken aback.

"I always thought that you two had a future together. I'm glad to see that I was right on that ground." As he spoke, his words froze John to the spot, confused and mesmerized at the same time. "He needs someone to be there for him in ways that you cannot fathom. He'll need you constantly, though he may never admit it. He may even try to push you away, in fear of himself. I pray you not to listen. I know he cares for you dearly. And in such a rare case as this, I think that you are the one in which he may say that he loves. Never forget it. Be with him as the soldier we know you are: unwaveringly loyal, brave and capable of being strong even when it would be so much easier to simply give up." He paused, opening the door and taking a step out of it. "You have my every blessing. I know you are good for him. Take care of my brother, would you, John?" he didn't wait for an answer, just stepping through the door, closing it as he did so. But before it met the frame, the door popped open again, his face reappearing in the crack.

"I'll have someone leave the test results at the door in an hour. They'll knock before leaving. I'll be back later as well. Good day!" was all he said before he vanished again, the door closing fully behind him, leaving John standing there, open and shocked, staring at the space in which his lovers brother had just been. It took a while for the situation to sink in, let alone what the man had just said. But eventually, letters began to form words, words formed sentences, and finally, sentences made sense. He stood there a while, pondering over what Mycroft had just renounced to him. But it had only been a few minutes when Sherlock, still unconscious on the bed, tensed and began to whimper. A hurt, terrified whimper, as though he were being beat. Little did John know, as he rushed back to his side, that that was exactly the case.


	9. What Are You Doing

**What Are You Doing?**

** Part 9**

**A Johnlock Fanfiction by McColSHLoki/ M.D. Iles ( believeinsherlock_cumberbatch on Instagram) Please give all credit to such and know that I LOVE YOU TO PIECES FOR READING THIS! Help me and tell people about it, my cookies!**

**!WARNING! This chapter contains family abuse and hints of incest. Tread carefully.**

"So, how was your day, son?" Sherlock looked up from his dinner, moving the food around the plate without attempting to move it anywhere near his mouth. The Holmes family was seated in the large, grand dining room at home, the chandelier above twinkling, casting a warm glow over the meal.

"Father, is everyone stupid?" he asked. His father, laughed heartily, staring at his son.

"Well, I guess that's a matter of opinion. Most do think they're rather smart, despite what their IQ tells them. Why do you ask?" Father questioned, leaning on the table. Sherlock sighed and waved his fork in the air.

"Because no notices anything, not even the simplest things. It is constantly infuriating; like talking to baboons quite frankly." Sigur Holmes chuckled, still staring intently at his son. To Sherlock's left, his mother became alert and turned to her son.

"Don't call people baboons, Sherlock, it's not good."

"But it's true! Do you want me to lie instead?" he said, defending himself. His voice already deeper than would be expected, though still quite that of a boys.

"Sherlock." His mother warned in a sing song voice.

"Yes Mummy." Sherlock mumbled.

"Feeling superior are we? It isn't because your turning thirteen tomorrow, is it?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and stared back down at his plate, stacking the mashed potatoes, forming them. Beside him, his brother Mycroft scoffed. Sherlock whipped his head up to glare at the older brother. "Problem?"

"Stop playing with your food Sherlock. If you're not going to eat, leave it be." Mycroft scolded, turning his nose up in the air. Subtly, he turned his head to look at their mother for support.

"You heard your brother, Lockie." His mother said sweetly. Sherlock fidgeted in his seat, pushing his plate away, his smooth young face that was already far more mature than the other boys his age was lined with annoyance and disappointment. He slumped in his chair, feet planted on the ground under him, curly dark hair falling into his eyes. He watched as his father poured another large glass of scotch. Obviously strong, the liquid moving heavily in the glass, the smell strong enough to touch Sherlock's nose form across the table. He sighed again loudly, rolling his head.

"What's wrong son?" his father asked before raising his glass and downing the whole lot.

"May I be excused?" Sherlock asked, his voice feigning politeness. Suddenly, his father's eyes flashing.

"What?" he snapped. Sherlock's brow creased marginally for this wasn't normal. His father normally drank a well amount of alcohol in a night's time, but never before had he formed the vicious glint in his eye that he had now. Nonetheless, Sherlock stood his ground, trying to go against his normalcy of stating this.

"I was hoping to be dismissed so that I may work on my lab for Biology that is due tomorrow." His father narrowed his eyes at him. Still staring at his kin, he tossed his head back and swallowed the remains of scotch that had pooled in the bottom of the glass. He set the glass down harshly, though no one at the table seemed to care that much. But immediately Sherlock's skin tingled. He loved his father, for he was a kind man, even when he drank, which he was doing more of as of late. He looked up to the man whose sharp eyes, wit and facial features he had passed onto his son.

"Go. I'll be up to talk to you later." Sherlock's body locked down, an unknown fear taking hold. He quickly broke out of it and swaggered his way from the table and up the stairs to his room, which despite its being tucked away in a corner, was built like a suite. He closed the door behind him, resting against it and closing his eyes. He stayed there a few moments before advancing into his room. It was incredibly spacey, the walls a soft navy blue, a good portion of his room comparable to a library mixed with a laboratory: it was home. He walked over to his bed, beginning to take off his shirt when he heard the door open and the close behind him, the heavy uneven steps of his father walking in.

"So what was it you wanted to talk about?" Sherlock asked, lowering his shirt back down. And he turned to face his father, tie undone, stubble lining his jaw and neat, dark hair askew. Sherlock could smell the scotch on his breath as he slowly approached his son, mouth open. But what jerked Sherlock into the realization that he was in danger was the fact that his father was wringing a long, black leather belt in his hands.

"You need to watch your mouth Sherlock, or I might just have to bring matters into my own hands." He leered, slowly walking towards him. Panicked, Sherlock backed up, hitting the bed and nearly falling down onto it.

"Father, what are you doing?" he asked, trying desperately to hide the fear in his voice.

"Shut up." His father growled, lunging at Sherlock, hitting him with the back of his hand: the sting was immediate and harsh, the ring on his finger making a deep bruise on his cheek. Sherlock gasped, his hand flying up to his cheek, tears welling in his eyes, unused to this treatment.

"Father?"

"Don't be such a twat, Sherlock." With a swift movement, his father grabbed the front of his shirt and threw his son to the ground harshly. Sherlock thudded against the ground, his breath knocked from his lungs momentarily. He quickly found it again, watching his father as the man let the belt hang from his hand, the stretch it in his hands, preparing it.

"Daddy," Sherlock whimpered "What are you doing?"

The man leaned back, cocking his arm. "If you make a sound, I'll kill you." With that, he brought his arm back, then released it, the length of the leather cracking against the boy on the floor.

Sherlock never turned thirteen. He grew up that night; he saw the horrors of the world and he immediately shielded himself from them, but he saw them again as he laid in that hospital bed, held down by the drugs, his father whipping him as he lay on the carpeted floor of his no longer bedroom.

He began to thrash on the mattress, John attempting to hold him down, the screams he wasn't allowed to voice as a child-made-adult were leaking from his unconscious mouth, as though he were locked under a twisted spell.

"Sherlock!" John called out, his hands pressing down on both his shoulders in an attempt to keep the drugged man down, less of a danger to him and himself. He could not make sense of what was happening to Sherlock, the man he knew to be as solid as iron and as unreadable as a blank piece of glass was showing his emotions in ways he had not believe possible: he was terrified. He had of course seen love sketched across his features brilliantly, his words a beautiful new tone, but never had he thought he would hear the blunt fear take form in his whimpers and twisted face.

At first, the detective had begun to whine, his body twitching against unseen forces. At that point, John had started to be concerned, but did not think it would escalate, for it was strange enough to see the man like this. But like a man being shot, Sherlock's body convulsed and he cried out, then screamed, despite his unconsciousness, he was tensed and fearful, the terrified yells of a boy shooting from his mouth helplessly. He was shaking and thrashing about like a man being whipped at a stake, unable to move away from the kiss of the whip. John could not understand, the thoughts unable to process in his mind as this new frightening scenario took place before him, unable to do anything but watch in fear and pray for the man he loved.

"Sherlock! What's wrong?" John asked uselessly, not knowing what else to do.

Soon, words accompanied the screams and whimpers.

"Father…" he whispered at first "Daddy… PLEASE!" he screamed.

At this point, John let go of Sherlock's shoulders and took a step back, unable to understand that heroin could something like his, cause such, what must be, hallucinations. But right then, it wasn't that he was concentrating on, it was the words his lover was screaming.

Slowly, Sherlock could feel consciousness creeping up under him and as he tried to push past the fear, unsuccessfully, but he couldn't tell if he was happy for that or not. Bitter fear bit into his mind, poisoning it, the images that leaked through his mind, spreading like weeds were placed about the room as his eyes snapped open. His breath was heavy and pained, his mind throbbing, the images of his old room blending in with that of the pristine hospital room.

He sat up abruptly, scanning it with wide eyes, seeing his bed in the far corner, his book shelves to the right and blood staining the carpet on the floor. Frantically, his eyes sought out Johns and when he found his, snatched his shirt and pulled him closed, his eyes flickering to the door where he could see his father rapidly approaching, undoing his trousers, drink strong on his breath. Sherlock shook with blinding fear, the images he had deleted taking an unimaginable toll on him.

"Don't let him hurt me John. Please... John! Don't let him! Get him away!" Tears had started to flow down Sherlock's pale face. John couldn't seem to form words, his eyes wide and mouth open, lines creasing his forehead.

"Sherlock…"

The bed shook under the detective, his body soaked with sweat, but in his drugged state, the wetness was the blood he had more than once been covered in, and in this state, the hallucination of his father striding towards him, kicking off his trousers was stronger than ever, and Sherlock yelled, wanking the cords from his body and falling off the bed.

"NO! Stay away from me! Please! Please, don't hurt me again, please… Oh, god oh, GOD!" he skittered to a corner, back pressed up against it and slid down it. John rushed over to him, ignorant of the destruction Sherlock had caused, and knelt down beside him, not sure of what to do, for if he touched him, who knows what the hallucinations would interpret them as.

Sherlock watched in horror as his father was nearly on top of him, and without his bodily permission, Sherlock began to yell the speech he had screamed in his mind more than once.

"Oh God! Where are you?! Where are you while I lay here, screaming in silent agony, writhing under the touch of my protector. Where are you now! The heavenly Father, meant to keep me from harm, be there for me and there you sit on your almighty throne, watching me die with every glass of scotch that man downed! You are not here! You are not my God, for if you truly are there, why in the name of all that the Devil has touched would I be bleeding out on my bed room floor time after time?! Why would I have been thrown into the pit of Hell for being born to a man of such vileness that he would take his own kin?! Oh God, oh GOD! You are not my God, WHERE ARE YOU NOW AS I SCREAM INTO THE SILENCE, SPLIT APART BY MY OWN SELF, UNSAFE IN MY OWN HOUSE! And I could take my life if I did not care so damn much, but then again, if you do not forgive such acts, than you are not God, and there is no dividing line from you and Hell, for I know what Hell looks like, I have lived there since the night before my thirteenth birthday!"

Without thinking, John reached for Sherlock and brought the shaking man to his chest, his own silent tears streaming down his cheeks. He shushed him as the detective scrambled against his chest, trying to push him away, his hands feebly trying to flatten against his chest and send him away, but John just held on tighter.

"John, he's coming for me. Go, go! Okay?! Before it's too late! Please John, he doesn't have to hurt you too!" Sherlock whispered frantically, his wide terrified eyes meeting Johns. Sherlock had stopped fighting so much, now simply shaking in his grasp. John let go of his small frame, bringing his hands up to strongly cup his face.

"I'm not going anywhere Sherlock. I'm right here and I'm not leaving you here with your past. No, I don't care, I'm not leaving you. I love you." They crouched in that corner for who knows how long, Sherlock shaking and crying, flinching as the torture of his childhood took place in the room, ignorant of Johns presence, not including him in the horror of Sherlock's father beating the boy, taking him incestuously. And every time a fresh new buried item came up, Sherlock shook even harder, odd whimpers escaping his lips, his gut twisting with anxiety.

John never let go, cradling the vulnerable, hallucinating man in his strong arms, doing his best to calm him down. There was no telling how long the hit would last, but he knew that it wasn't heroin that Sherlock had taken. He just couldn't make him think of what it was.

It must have been a few hours, the room quiet save for the whines that accompanied Sherlock's spasms, when John heard someone walk up to the door and stoop before opening it and entering. Mycroft's tall frame came into view, his face grim and a paper in his hands. He looked as though he were going to say something but he never had the chance, for the room was then filled with the piercing scream of Sherlock. He broke out of Johns grasp and skittered back up the wall, pressed up against it on weak legs, such terror taking hold of his features.

"No, don't come near me. Please! Don't! John, run, I told you, he doesn't need to hurt you too!" Sherlock bellowed. John go up quickly, looking back and forth between Mycroft and Sherlock. What had his brother done to him? But that was answered quickly as Sherlock whispered to himself.

"Father, leave me alone, please. What did I do to deserve this? Was I not good enough, because I wasn't your precious little Mycroft, because I was different? Why do you hurt me so, tear me apart and make me bleed on the carpet? Why did I even have to press that needle to my skin, the tube to my nose? Because of you, but why?! What did I do?"

Mycroft looked to John, confusion and disbelief all over his features. John looked at Sherlock's brother and shook his head. Sherlock didn't realize that this man wasn't his father. John thought to tell him, but Mycroft looked down at the paper in his hands and his mouth hung open.

"LSD?" The three letters shook John, though he had already known, the confirmation of it made it that much worse. "A combination of heroin and LSD." Mycroft began to walk towards the pair in the corner slowly and for Sherlock, the hallucination left his brothers appearance, now letting him see Mycroft there instead, though the persecutor still stood in the corner.

"Mycroft." He murmured. "I should not but I hate you. You didn't care because you didn't know, but you should have noticed." Sherlock slid back down the wall and gripped his knees, hanging his head between them. John turned to Mycroft, his eyes glazed and softer. "Are there cameras in here?"

"Of course." He replied.

"Well then," he said settling down next to Sherlock and bringing him back into his arms, the man falling limply and willingly into his lap "you had better take a look at them."

Eventually, the drug started to wear off, the hallucinations becoming sketchier and less profound, no longer sending convulsions of undiluted terror through Sherlock's body. He hadn't planned on telling John about what had happened, he thought that when the hallucinations began he could keep himself stoic and cool, himself while he was being tortured by the illusions of his broken past. He was going to have to tell him now though, he knew it from the moment his lips shouted those words that he was going to have to tell the doctor, he wouldn't be able to brush it off. Perhaps it would be good for him, to cleanse himself of what was the past, the past he had shoved to the back of his intellect and, so he thought, deleted through hundreds of needles and clouds of poisonous smoke.

He was settled in the strong holds of Johns arms, held close to his warm body in a protective and loving embrace. His fingers would curl through Sherlock's hair now and again, as though reminding himself that Sherlock hadn't vaporized with the hallucinations, though the detective still did shake, though not as horribly anymore. He loved the way that John smelled, the warm, clean yet musky scent of his body surrounding him as he pressed his face into John's shirt, taking advantage of the hours that he was in the man's grip.

Sherlock blanched inwardly whenever he remembered that this broken piece of heaven could never last, they couldn't grow old together.

But those thoughts could wait, and for now, he was with the man he loved. Later, he would tell him the secrets he had forgotten, the secrets that made him tremor with pain and terror whenever the edge of one was brought up. Right now, he was with John, and as he pushed those memories back down, nothing could be better


End file.
